Emails from Uppsala
by Emma Lynch
Summary: Sequel to The Science of Attraction and prequel to The Curious Incident... , the tale of Molly Hooper s eight months as a Research Assistant at Uppsala University is revealed in a series of emails to and from her Baker Street friends. Only Sherlock and Mycroft know of her pregnancy, and of the danger she could be in...AKA A Very Swedish Pregnancy !
1. Chapter 1

The dim lights in the airport taxi rank are far from conducive to map reading. _Lesson one in my Giant Swedish Adventure_, thinks Molly Hooper, as she is enveloped in a virtual origami folding tent of a map. A giant wheelie suitcase and equally giant backpack surround her, like bulky sentinels, protecting her from the icy Stockholm wind, but hinting solemnly at the heavy lifting to come.

"Clarify, Molly – "the soft, deep voice had exuded a mixture of concern and slight mockery. "– are the bags for travelling _with_, or travelling _in_?"

Amusing. At the time.

Then later, lying opposite to her in the bath; steam leaving condensation on the mirror and tiny beads of sweat across their faces…

"I`ll be coming with you tomorrow." Certainty, arrogance, care – mixed in perfect measure. But, stubborn, post-feminist Molly wasn't having that. _Silly bugger_.

"No, Sherlock… it will be fine, really it will. I can get on a plane, train and taxi (_or whatever they have in Sweden_) and I`ll be there before tea time. It`s only 80 km north of Arlanda Airport…less than an hour to Uppsala and the campus. Professor Amundssen should be there to greet me."

"`_Should_`?"

"Will. Will be there."

She smiles her bright `_everything is ok on the outside, no matter what`s going on inside_` smile and nudges his submerged leg with her toe for added emphasis. She can see the snarkiness in his eyes through the steam. Snarkiness mixed equally with … concern? Sherlock Holmes was a strange little cocktail of emotions these days. Molly felt he was a tad bemused by the new and un-tempered feelings she had catapulted into his life since that evening in Marylebone Park, all those months ago. Particularly, when considering _most recent developments._

"Well, hopefully you`ll be able to catch a ride on a moose, or a sleigh at the other end," comments Sherlock, dismissively. Casual snark, with a side of…worry.

"Hopefully," she concurs. Not a bit of bother.

A beeping taxi horn brings her to her senses to find the map situation has reached critical mass. Unable to re-fold the damn thing, Molly gives up and bundles it, crumpled and ruined, into the top of the rucksack. She starts looking squintily at any Swedish sign which might indicate `Railway Station`, whilst having a sudden and rather unfortunate mental picture of her tortoiseshell reading glasses sitting atop of Sherlock`s bathroom cabinet. _Absolutely great…_

The taxi driver huffs and puffs as he unloads Molly`s luggage from the boot. He did the same thing when he loaded it in at the station. And Molly, being Molly, is plagued with guilt. She hands him a large krone note (enough? Not enough?).

"Tack så mycket." She has been practising in her head, for the last five miles. He smiles broadly and mimes a salute.

"Ingen orsak. Tack." Clearly, more than enough.

The cold is biting. After her last London winter, Molly Hooper thought she knew what cold was all about, but she`d obviously had very little idea of a Scandinavian climate. Her phone told her it was around 8 degrees Celsius, but the sharp cold wind that seemed to be gusting over from Lapland, brought with it a hint of iciness to come. Around the edges of the town square, evidence of piled, dirty snow told of a winter that was, despite it being late April, not quite done with.

"Hej! Hej, hej, Doctor Hooper! Hi, hello!"

A waving Viking in a flapping puffa jacket is beaming at her as he strides effortlessly across the cobbled square in the darkening evening. Sturdy, greying, bearded and at least six foot five; Professor Amundssen truly looks like a man who could have discovered a new arctic continent, rather than one who led the Uppsala Biomedical Centre (BMC) research team.

"Hi, Professor…Hej!" He clasps her hand, tiny in his, and apologises profusely for not being waiting as she arrived.

"You must call me Stig … Molly, I will escort you to your hotel and all the lab junk – we can get to that the day after tomorrow – time enough then. You need a rest after traversing the frozen wastes!" He laughs a booming laugh and picks up her two bags as if they were trick or treat bags at Halloween.

Running, to keep alongside him. "The day after tomorrow? Is the lab closed? Have I come a day too early…?"

"No, no!" Booming laugh again. "Tomorrow, Molly, is the 30th of April! Walpurgis! Our Spring Festival. No-one at the Universtet will be working tomorrow, Molly – it`s the day we welcome the Spring!"

**X0x0x0x0x0x0x00x0x**

The Hotell Charlotte was what you might politely call a `budget hotel` in one of the back streets behind the main forum or market square in Uppsala. It was sandwiched between a traditional looking bar/café called Café Ofrandahls (`_they have excellent poetry readings on Friday evenings – all in Swedish, though!_` boomed Stig) and what looked like a massively overstuffed bookshop called Akademibokhandeln (`_sci-fi and fantasy books their speciality; an excellent English section_,` informed Stig, aka the human guide-book). Still, the hotel looked clean, if slightly fraying at the edges, and the receptionist (`call me Annifrid – like in ABBA!`) assured Molly of her safety and the temperamental water system.

"It groans like a weary donkey when two showers are running, but you academics don`t usually mind that. We have many academics here…Nobel prize winners…"

Annifrid (like in ABBA) allowed Stig and Molly to listen without interrupting. Everyone so far had such excellent English, Molly felt slightly less guilty about neglecting her _Rosetta Stone_ mp3 download. She was very tired though, and her mind began to wander as Annifrid listed all the beautiful sights and sounds of Uppsala and the imminent Walpurgis Festival – the social highlight of the year at the Universitet. She wondered what everyone was doing back home and felt a sudden lurch beneath her breastbone, rendering her breathless. A tiny, treacherous tear had gathered in the corner of her eye and she defied it to fall as her bags were deposited on the floor of a small, but immaculate room. She actually, more than anything, was wondering was Sherlock was doing. _Damn that lump in my throat – begone! Go and bother someone else who is slightly less tired and hormonal._

Thus, little Molly Hooper was more than happy when her friendly, native welcoming committee had left her to `unpack and unwind`. Stig had muttered about `_getting back to the wife_`. Molly remembered he was quite newly married, to a younger woman after a whirlwind romance. Somehow, this didn't help with the throat lump, which had now taken on boulder like proportions.

God – what had she brought that cardigan for? And those shoes? She wouldn't be wearing gold high heels to walk on the icy cobbles of Uppsala…and those jeans! They only fit you for around an hour a day, after you just get up and haven't eaten anything. She`ll soon not be able to pull them up at all, considering her current interesting condition. Although tidy in the lab to the point of OCD, Molly wasn't too worried about where things were until everything was out of the two huge bags. Keep busy. Keep the – _sentiment_ – at bay. Just homesick. Or, _Holmes _sick. God, Molly Hooper, get a ruddy GRIP!

And she actually managed to hold it together until the tips of her fingers had scuffled right down into the depths of the rucksack pocket where they encountered a shiny, hard rectangular case. With hinges. Grasping it, she rootled it out and looked dumbly at the glasses case containing – oh yes – the tortoiseshell glasses she _knew_ she`d left in the Baker Street bathroom.

And, nestling betwixt their folded arms lay a tiny, folded note, which she opened with shaky fingers.

`_You will almost certainly need these to type all the emails you will be sending me, my Molly. Genius girl; make me proud. SH`_

And the tear rolled down, unhindered.

**Xoxoxoxoxoooxox**


	2. Happy Walpurgis!

**Molly is adjusting to life at the University. Sherlock is just - adjusting...**

**Thank you for reading - any comments always very welcome!**

* * *

"God morgon, Dr Hooper. Happy Walpurgis!" The moment the breakfast plate of traditional herring is placed down in front of her by kindly Annifrid, Molly knows she`s in trouble.

"I hope you will be ready by ten…the Running Falls race starts then, at the River Fyris – oh! You look – "

The aroma of pickled fish, wafting upwards from her plate, has just been the vinegary little straw that broke this nauseated camel`s back, and Molly is pushing back her chair, hand over mouth and heading for the nearest toilet sign.

And Annifrid watches her go, with a contemplative expression on her face.

**x0x0x**

To: Sherlock_holmes221 Hotmail .co .uk

From: dr_mollyH googlemail .com

Subject: Walpurgis Festival Fun!

Dear Sherlock (I`m sorry, I still am hard-wired with the letter writing formality I learnt in Junior school)

Well, today has been pretty interesting and no mistake.

Seems like I arrived at Uppsala Universtet just in time for their maddest and funnest day of the year. I met up with Professor Amundssen at half past nine and he made sure we got the best of viewing stations. He offered me a sit on his (huge) shoulders, but I declined, since he is about seven feet tall and you don`t yet know what I`m like with heights.

Sherlock, it was thrilling! Seemed like every one of the 24,000 students here were out and either lined up along the river or throwing themselves along it on, what looked like, Styrofoam sheets and empty plastic beer bottles, all stuck together with gaffer tape and dental floss! I was worrying slightly about health and safety regulations in Sweden, but if they don`t care, why should I? The river Fyris was pretty high and swollen due to the recent rain and about thirty to forty Heath Robinson style floating devices were pitched along in a frothy, foamy mess. I found I was joining in with the screaming too, as they toppled over the Iceland Falls; plunging into what looked exactly like a cauldron of boiling water and almost certain death by drowning/head injury/you name it. I just couldn't believe it when they popped up, like corks out of a bottle and carried on to the finish line. I have, literally, no voice left.

The winner was a third year medical student called Achilles Stromberg. Everyone here is so tall, blond and athletic looking, and he was well-named – a Greek god and no mistake! Achilles is now entitled to free beer and herring (bleurgh!) for a year! (until the next festival takes place).

I have done absolutely no work today. After lunch, we watched as the Walpurgis Pin was handed out to some graduate students, then, at exactly 3pm, hundreds of students all put on their white ceremonial caps at the same time – it looked beautiful, and is supposed to signify the white anemone flowers coming out in bloom, showing Spring has arrived. I probably shouldn't say, but I did have a tear in my eye, particularly when the Orphie Men`s Choir started singing. It was gorgeous, Swedish and totally unintelligible to me, but more tears were shed. I am turning into a massive cry-baby. I blame you. For sure.

After the Champagne Gallop (where everyone runs crazily down a hill and ends up drinking their body weight in fizzy wine) I met Stig`s wife. She is very beautiful, young and, as it turns out, Russian. He met her at a conference in St. Petersburg last Spring, fell in love and married her within four weeks! It seems very romantic (_stop rolling your eyes! I KNOW you`re doing it!)_ and she (Lorka) seems very nice, if somewhat nervy. Probably having to try and speak two languages which are not your own is quite tricky. She had to leave early, before the _Spring Address_ at the _Gunilla Bell Tower_ at Uppsala Castle. It is amazing, Sherlock! All lit up and imposingly powerful looking – a citadel! There was plenty of mingling (as Mycroft would say!) and I met several members of the BMC Research Team. At present, I can`t remember a single one of their names, but tomorrow I get to meet everyone properly, so wish me luck!

Oh, I am sorry. I have read this back and I seem to be rambling at the speed of light about my day. It has been exciting, but I was truthfully pretty glad to have so much to look at, since I am sick on so many levels. Vomit-y baby-growing sick, as well as sick with nerves about living up to this mad academic reputation I seem to have acquired. Also, Sherlock, I am massively homesick, and I`m not talking about my time away from Bart`s. I know it was the right decision to come (_chance in a lifetime_ – Mike Stamford), and I know part of my problem is my hormone levels fluctuating like a toddler`s attention span; but, in addition, Sherlock, I am hugely and massively missing you and Baker Street. Tough luck if that is sentiment – I`m standing by my sentiment, so you, Sherlock Holmes, can suck it up (or _suga upp_, as they say over here).

I am attaching some photos of everything for you. I got a great one of Achilles raising his trophy after the raft race. Just look at his face – must be so excited about the prospect of a year of free herring!

Jag älskar dig,

Molly x

**X0x0x00x0x0000x0xx**

To: dr_mollyH googlemail. com

From: Sherlock_holmes221 Hotmail. co .uk

Subject: Achilles Heel

Molly,

A fascinating email and one I was very pleased to receive. John`s blog has been sorely neglected since his nuptuals, therefore my caseload has suffered and Mrs Hudson was fearful for her wall.

Your photographs (albeit, a tad blurry and distant) gave me an insight into the Walpurgis raft race which your words alone could not. The facts are thus:

Achilles Stromberg is a cheat

Achilles Stromberg has a serious gambling habit

Achilles Stromberg has a twin brother.

In your pictures, before the race, when Achilles was being cheered and patronised by his friends, he was shaking hands with his right hand. His watch was on his left hand and his hair parting was on his right. The photograph of the winner shows a different story. The man holding the trophy (and, presumably dreaming of herring) was shaking hands with his left, wearing his watch on his right and his hair parting was on the left. He was a different man. I have investigated Mr Stomberg and found him to have been living a little beyond his means. He has engendered substantial debts through gambling, partying and generally misbehaving. He has been a very naughty boy. Through some contacts of mine (you have met Wiggins?) I discovered that the Running Falls raft race has, for the past thirty years, been subject to an enormous amount of illegal betting and gambling. Add to this, the fact that Achilles` twin brother, Aldarik, appeared in the last Commonwealth Games as one of the coxless pair rowing team, and I think you may see the way this is going.

Looking at Google Maps, it is possible to track the route of the Frysis River, through Uppsala. There is a bend, halfway through the race which offers cover to anyone who is out in front. From the online description of the race, I knew that Achilles was way ahead and had ample time for his brother to appear from the tree-covered bank, as seamlessly as he disappeared into it, and finish the race with Olympic standard boat management. Achilles had to start the race, or his friends would have guessed the difference. At the finish, cheering, drinking and salutations were all that was necessary. The race was fixed and the outcome betted upon. Achilles (and presumably, his co-conspirator brother) would have received more than free beer and herring. Achilles debts had been cleared by 6pm last night (don't ask me how I know – Mycroft wouldn't approve).

I have included the following addendum (apologies if your knowledge precedes this) re: mirror image twins. You may wish to point this out to the authorities; alternatively, you may not. The case, although interesting, must figure less than a six, therefore no action is required if you feel nothing would be gained.

I am concerned you are not so healthy at present. Do try and eat the herring, since omega-3 can only be of benefit to the foetus.

Sherlock

_Addendum:_

_Mirror-image twins occur only in identical twins. In approximately 23 percent of identical twins the egg splits later than usual, most often day seven or beyond. The original right half of the egg becomes one individual and the original left half becomes the other. These twins will often have "mirror images" of their features, such as hair whorls that run clockwise in one and counter clockwise in the other, a birthmark on the right shoulder of one and the left shoulder of the other, etc. There is no specific test for determining if twins are mirror-image. The determination is made by observation only, and the twins must be monozygotic, or identical. _

_One twin will be right-handed, while the co-twin is left-handed. This may be a partial explanation for the fact that a little over one third of identical twins are left-handed, double the rate in the general population. In extreme cases, all of the internal organs are reversed in one of the twins, with the heart on the right, the liver on the left and the appendix on the left._

Taking off her glasses, Molly didn't know whether to laugh, or cry.

**X0x0x00x0x0x00x**

**NB: thanks to espee for the tagging advice!**


	3. Babies and Newbies

**Thank you so much to reviewers/favouriters/followers - it`s all very lovely.**

**Let`s hope John`s email style is a bit more friendly than Sherlock`s!**

* * *

To: dr_mollyH googlemail . com

From: doc_jhamish_watson ntlworld co .uk

Subject: Babies, babies, babies

Hej, Molly (I looked it up!)

Thought you might be lonely, hence nerdy first day email from me (and family!) to you.

We are, actually, missing you already. The morgue is as quiet as … well, a morgue (!) without your presence. Called in on Mike this morning and he`s like a lost soul now you are gone (nothing different there, then!). He is pretty excited about the extra funding for the new lab at Bart`s which may come from this project you`re doing, so he`s virtually planning to erect a statue of you as I write this!

God, Molly – never have children! I realise that may sound pretty drastic advice to a young woman like yourself, but I speak as a man who is clinging to edges of his sanity after over a month of sleep deprivation. I don't know how Sherlock does this `_I don't need sleep; I am an automaton_` crap – it`s bloody torture (literally – I know men who were tortured in this way during capture!) and Mary is holding it together better than me. (I do think, after consideration, she is probably used to this kind of tough regime from her previous line of work…) Sholto is a lovely lad who has clearly made a pact with Satan to try and drive me insane. Seriously, though, it is a good job he resembles his mother so closely, or his days would be numbered!

Clearly, fatherhood is agreeing with me! Am sure it will get better. Sherlock is very interested in Sholto`s sleep patterns actually. Keeps a chart and everything. He has designed an algorithm and suggested analyses of cause, effect, duration etc. You know what he`s like – bored between cases – but a baby sleep analysis – who knew?

And while we`re actually on the subject of His Majesty (when are we not?!), may I just say that you left at exactly the right time. He has been a royal pain in the arse for the last twenty four hours (did I mention he was bored?). He called in this morning around 7 am – normally unacceptable, but as I had been up since 4 am, not so bad. I was zombiefied and watching a repeat of _Jason and the Argonauts_…well, Molls, you should have heard the ranting about `_absurdly muscle-bound and freakish Greeks rowing ridiculously proportioned boats_` and how unrealistic it all was. It was a fantasy film, but he, for some reason, had madly taken against Greek athletes rowing a boat – good job the Olympics are over. Crazy stuff – but when can anyone fathom the rationale of Sherlock Holmes? Who knows what`s going on in that overdeveloped cranium of his… I just got on with making a cup of tea and left the two babies together to cry it out. I think Sherlock is the slightly more immature of the two.

Anyhow, enough of him…how is it up in Uppsala? Are you wearing reindeer skin lab coats and assembling flat pack furniture? Throw in Eurovision and Abba, and you`ve probably got the full set of Scandinavian clichés right there! I hear you`ve had an easy first day with a festival of some kind, so I hope tomorrow goes well for you. I know it`s a mighty change, but you can handle it – you`re brilliant and don`t you forget it! (Mary said that last bit, but I second it). Oh, and before I forget, Sarah and Joanne from Bart`s say hi and to `_show them how it`s done in the best hospital in the WORLD_!` (direct quote).

So, there you go – we are all rooting for you; even Sherlock, I am sure, in his own crazy way.

Off for a good night`s pacing the floor,

John x

**X0x0x0x0x0x00xx**

"Molly Hooper, this is Goran Bergendahl, biologist."

"Hej! Please to meet you again, Molly. I hope our Walpurgis Festival day didn't give you too much of a shock of culture?"

"…and Johann Helsing, biologist research assistant…"

"He means right-hand-man! Welcome Molly."

"…Maibritt Saftsrom, post-doctoral research associate…"

"Hej, Molly! Excuse the gloves!"

"…Janik Lorentson, automation and equipment engineer…"

"Hej, Dr Hooper – I keep all wheels oiled and running for you lab monkeys!"

"…and… ah, _fan_! Where is she? Always missing! Where is Seija?"

A flurry of hand-shaking, bright smiling and nodding was suddenly interrupted by – the lack of one of Stig`s team. Molly, who`s head was spinning and cheeks aching, was grateful for the temporary lull. Everyone was smiling, fair and welcoming and she really couldn't have asked for more. This would be her team while she was here – her very own Swedish research posse – or House Mafia? God, Molly, have some gravitas, for heaven`s sake – be a grown up!

"Ah, at last! Seija! Seija, come here! Molly Hooper, please meet Miss Seija Härbärgera, biologist and persistent latecomer!"

And amongst a sea of tall blond smilers, Molly looked into the pale blue eyes and pale skinned face of Seija Härbärgera and was shocked to stillness. Dark, wavy hair tied back untidily with a yellow ribbon and a serious expression. She was only slightly taller than Molly and she smiled, briefly as she held out a stiff hand.

"Good to see you, Dr Hooper. Please ignore Professor Amundssen. He doesn't know it, but I am late due to the appalling state of his cataloguing." Turning to Stig. "Your Protein 6 Beta-cells are mixed in with the none protein beta-cells. It`s a mess, my friend."

Stig Amundssen`s eyes widened and his cheeks coloured as everyone held a collective breath – then he boomed out his distinctive roar of a laugh and a mass exhalation followed.

"Seija! You get away with murder! What a first impression on our new team member! She may think you don`t respect your esteemed leader."

Seija rolled her blue eyes at her boss whilst simultaneously shrugging and cracking a small smile.

"Doctor Hooper – "

"Molly, please!"

"Molly. It is, as you can see, a good job you are here! Everyone has been letting things slide!" She waved her arms elegantly to encompass her colleagues, who seemed entirely used to such behaviour.

"Still, there IS hope – Lanik actually got one of the centrifuges working last week, without resorting to a hammer!" And she gave a cheeky tilt of her hand as she left the lab; all eyes following her.

"And, the answer is `yes`, Dr Hooper." Said Johann Helsing.

"`Yes?`"

"Yes, she IS always like that."

**X0x0x0x0x0x0x0x0x**


	4. Dr Doyle Writes a Poem

To: Sherlock_holmes221 Hotmail. co .uk

From: dr_mollyH googlemail . com

Subject: Bookshops and Gossip

God kväll Sherlock!

That is hello, but can only be used after around 5pm. The Swedish are quite particular about their timed greetings. There are at least five or six which change, according to the time of day. You probably know that, though, don`t you? I know Mycroft does, since I saw him reading a Swedish phrase book over at Baker Street a few weeks ago when he came to look at the lab. Perhaps he`s going to give me a test!

Sorry, rambling.

Can you believe I`ve been here over a week? I`ve told you about the team already and, with the exception of Seija, everyone still seems friendly and welcoming. Did I tell you, Sherlock, the full title of what we are working on? I wouldn't usually bore people, but I know you love science porn, so here it is - `_The Study of the proliferation, function and death of insulin producing Beta cells in-vitro: (_there`s ruddy well more_!) Role of the transcription factor ZPED6_`. Phew! If you smoked a pipe, I would be asking you to put that in it and smoke it! Stig is very excited to be moving towards getting a breakthrough in the conquest of diabetes, since it`s also in his wife`s family.

Oh God – I almost forgot to mention (science porn fogging my brain!) – you were totally right about Achilles and twin brother! I really didn't think it was my place to be a _whistle blower_ to the police, but we were discussing the race in the lab on Tuesday, and I mentioned the Commonwealth rower brother (oh, so casually…) and, low and behold, next day brings the _Upsala Nya Tidning_newspaper article (which I am attaching for you, clever boy) with pithy headlines and plays on words (The Fall of Achilles; The Trojan Horse; Brothers in River Shame Sham; etc. etc.). I do think your `Achilles Heel` kind of summed them up best. Stripped of title, beer, and ill-gotten gambling funds … not to mention an awful lot of herring. Sherlock, I think that the BMC is a hotbed of gossip and intrigue. I think Johann is the worst. He thinks Lorka Amundssen (Stig`s young, Russian wife) is a secret bulimic! Apparently, she runs up quite a weekly shop at the local stormarknad and is always cooking; yet she never gains a single ounce. Johann thinks she`s trying to feed up Stig so he`ll keel over and leave her all his money! Shame he`s as poor as the rest of us poverty stricken scientists.

Well, not only am I waffling again, but now I`m bitching about poor innocent Russian ladies. Spreading gossip across the North Sea, all the way to you, my poor, Baker Street loner! Sorry. Bad Molly. (sadface). I actually met Lorka in the book shop next to my hotel (I can`t even _begin_ to spell its name). No, she wasn`t buying a cookbook entitled `50 Ways to Fatten Up Your Man`, but did have a couple of Russia biology text books in her hand. I think it`s really sweet she wants to find out more about her husband`s job – I mean, what must they talk about at night? She was still a bit nervy around me though – I hope she doesn`t think I have designs on Stig – oh, God – surely she doesn`t? Yikes!

I am going to wrap this ramble up soon, but I want to say something to you first. I know you, Sherlock. You`re a powerhouse of a problem solver – cut to the bare bones of an issue and sort it out (a pathologist of crime?). You are like an excellent and precise surgeon; the minimum of cuts to find the heart of the matter; no time or need for paraphenalia or window dressing. Get it done. I know you don`t do flowery or poetic stuff, and I don`t expect it. But, I know I`m going to be over here for a fair while, and, whilst I`m really getting to like it, I must warn you that I will be soppy with you from time to time, and you are going to have to endure it. No snarkiness; no eye-rolling or mockery and certainly no feigned indifference (_I know you do it! John and Mary can tell, too!)_ I am pregnant and I have an in-built clause which gives me permission to be stomach-churningly romantic to the father of my baby whenever I want; and he has to read it, acceptingly. So, here I go.

Sherlock ...

I will love you all my days,

I will want you all my days,

All the days that are mine to take

And

All the days that are yours to give.

Mine. Yours. Ours.

I do miss you.

And you truly don`t have to say it back.

Jag älskar dig,

Molly x

**X0x0x0x0x0x00x0x**

To: dr_mollyH googlemail. com

From: doc_jhamish_watson ntlworld .co .uk

Subject: Of Poetry and Bears

Hej, Molly!

Greetings from up North! (though, obviously not as far north as you – show-off!)

The game is on, Molly! Sherlock is on a case in Edinburgh, and I have been packed away with him by Mary on special leave, since I think (_I think_!) I may be getting slightly more tetchy than Sholto, with the lack of sleep. It`s an odd thing to think that being away with Sherlock Holmes would be respite, but since becoming a daddy, I`ve discovered new levels to which I can sink for a full night without crying (Can`t actually guarantee no crying, however, since Sherlock can also get a little tetchy if things don`t go his way).

It`s all a bit thrilling, though, since we are actually _undercover_! Sherlock is posing as a Literature and Language Lecturer at the University. He is Professor Doyle at the School of Literature, Languages and Cultures and is currently swanning around in a pair of black-rimmed glasses, slicked back hair and a CARDIGAN! I had to laugh. Repeatedly and loudly. Apparently, there is suspected thievery amongst the stacks. The only copy in Scotland of the first book printed in Gaelic (_John Knox's liturgy of 1567_) has gone missing, and the Dean feels it could well be an inside job – watch this space…

More bizarre than this, however, my little Nordic Scientist, is that Sherlock has to interact with students! But, Sherlock being Sherlock, is managing to keep this to a minimum and has set up a Blog and a Forum for students to contact _him_. Despite the cardigan, there have been a few inappropriate notes pushed under his door from the undergraduates. We believe _most_ of them to be female. I think he`s a bit scared . The blog is a poetry blog and, before we came up here, we had to populate it with quite a few original works to give him a bit more academic credence. This has proved most fun to do – I expect you know, since he`s probably asked you for a poem to add. In case you haven`t had time to log in to _`Professor Doyle`s Body of Work Blog`_, may I present some of our truly tragic efforts…if his students are convinced by these, they don`t deserve their degrees.

**_Stairs_**

_By M. Hudson_

_I walk up stairs,_

_All day and night._

_A shout, a cry, a yell for tea,_

_But no-one gives a thought for me._

_The stairs are steep,_

_The stairs are tall,_

_And who has done THAT_

_To my wall?_

X

**_Hiding_**

_By M. Watson_

_Slinking, slipping in the long grass_

_Where the feet pass_

_Where the last gasp_

_Of my last task_

_Comes to be._

_Crawling, creeping in the shallows_

_Where the shadows_

_Of the gallows_

_Come to meet me_

_Now you see._

_X_

**_Guilty_**

_By P. Anderson _

_Yellow notes are flapping in the breeze_

_On each one a word or clue_

_Oh, what has become of you?_

_I ask the Magpie in the trees._

_I can`t believe that you are gone._

_A lonely Magpie sings his song._

_X_

Actually, Molly, I think these really _are_ quite tragic. Mary`s brings me out in a cold sweat. Sherlock, being the drama queen, requested notes of sadness and longing – longing?! The most longing Sherlock does is for a new case or a packet of Benson`s. Or a margarine tub of eyelids, but that is another, altogether more gruesome story (for which I partially blame you). Anyway, in case you think that`s all we had to offer, I must show you Sally Donovan`s (Sherlock didn't include it, due to the distinct lack of _longing_…)

**_Freak_**

_By _

_Dead you said._

_Dead, said I._

_But, you are dead_

_Behind your eyes._

_X_

Charming, eh? I don`t think he`ll ever win her over!

Your last email was a great read. I`ve read it to Mary during the long, lonely watches of the night…I think your tales of Uppsala have succeeded in keeping us sane! Everyone sounds nice – and there is something about the tetchy Seija that kind of appeals to me. Mary said you should stay out of old bookshops too – she`s seen some bad things go down behind the dusty racks. Allegedly.

I must sign off soon, since Sherlock (who has been on his laptop for the last three and a half HOURS) is finding my typing `_exquisitely distracting_` - amazing. Before I do, though, I must tell you about earlier in the week, on our first day here…

Sherlock had been mooching around my blog, looking for a case when he discovered an email from a zookeeper, here at Edinburgh. As we were coming up here anyway, he thought he`d cram another case in before we started on the fake-lecturing. Mr William Kirwan had worked at the zoo for over thirty two years and he had become increasingly worried regarding some mysterious happenings on the premises. Apparently, although thorough checks were always made each night by the staff before leaving; often things were different in the morning when the zoo was unlocked and opened up. Bins were upturned; signs twisted to face the wrong direction; flower beds trampled and once, the gift shop had been broken into and most of the sweets taken and spread all over the zoo. It didn't happen every night, and no animal was ever harmed, but there were no signs of a break in. Sherlock and I had a walk up to Corpisthone and had a look around. Pretty massive (around eighty acres) and hilly, but I could see how Sholto might enjoy it, after he becomes human . Sherlock was in the zone, of course. He checked out the flower beds, the photos of the ransacked shop, the signs, everything. He seemed particularly interested in pictures they`d taken of what looked like slug trails on the windows of the shop and the fact that the beehives had not thrived well either. Odd. He spoke to Mr Kirwan outside the enclosure of _Helarctos malayanus, _the Malaysian Sun bear. He advised our client to invest in some CCTV cameras around the enclosure, and left. He wouldn't even let me call in at the gift shop.

Last night, he received a video clip, which I have attached for you (I hope it works). Apparently, Sun Bears are very agile climbers, with long claws. They like to go foraging at night and have a particularly sweet tooth and very long tongues. Sherlock surmised, and the CCTV cameras corroborated, that the bears were waiting until everyone had gone home, then, climbed out of their woefully inadequate enclosures and had a little traipse around the zoo; presumably visiting their friends, trampling over flower beds; swinging around on signposts and knocking over bins. They`d smelt the sugar in the shop and the slug trails were actually where their long tongues had licked the windows of the shop. The absence of the bees and their honey tell their own story. As dawn broke, the night raiding bears of Edinburgh zoo casually climbed back into their enclosures and acted like nothing had ever happened. True story. That video is going to be solid gold when it`s anonymously posted on YouTube. Or not. I personally would feel a little sad if their enclosures were made more impregnable. A little freedom is what we all need. Maybe I don't like zoos after all.

Gotta stop now. Getting death glares. AND he`s stopped smoking. Again. We`ll see how long it lasts this time.

Wrap up warm and send a poem to the blog. If you`re not too busy curing diabetes and stuff.

John x

**X0x0x0x0x0x0x00x**

To: dr_mollyH googlemail. com

From: Sherlock_holmes221 Hotmail. co .uk

Subject: Saying it back

Molly,

I am sitting in a tiny Edinburgh student flat, having had one of the most bizarre of weeks (_my favourite kind_) and having my ears repeatedly assaulted by John`s typing. He must be on Snapchat, or something. He keeps chuckling to himself and gazing into space, before resuming. It is truly like Chinese water torture. And I should know.

I will be closing the case of _The Missing Liturgy_ tomorrow. I am just awaiting DI Gregson`s reply regarding a technical trace on an IP address I requested earlier. Lestrade is on a `_make-up`_ holiday with his wife. Again. The money would probably have been better spent elsewhere, I suspect. I give the new rapprochement with Mrs Lestrade six months. And I am never wrong.

John thinks I have been researching or typing case notes, or such like, for the past four hours. He is mistaken. I have been composing, in actual fact, but _not_ music. That would have been far easier – but I didn't want easy.

You know, my Molly, how I am with matters of the heart. I envy John`s easy typing and smiling – friendliness and casual chit-chat seem to drip from him with little effort. I have it on good authority that ladies in several continents could vouch for his charms (_his_ authority, actually) and so it should be. I, on the other hand, am the frozen Tundra (_where you are_) which is just experiencing the first pale shafts of sunlight creeping across its hard, cold earth. I am frosty, but, since our night in the Boleyn Garden last summer, I know there is a growing warmth inside me – because of you.

I know John has shared news of the ridiculous poetry blog I engineered for this case. I confess, I hoped it would have had the useful side-effect of giving me inspiration to reply to the words you sent me some days ago. Many of `my` students have added their works to `_Dr Doyle`s Body of Work_` (all of which are better than our puerile efforts), but none inspired me. Poetry, I think, I should leave to the real literary giants of this world…

…but how do they know how I feel about you?

Behold – four hours work from the Pretender Poet:

**_Mine, Yours, Ours_**

_By S. Holmes_

_I have it all._

_A window into the mind_

_Of all the world._

_To see, to think, to know -_

_That is what I own._

_x_

_You have it all._

_A window into the heart_

_Of all the world._

_To help, to hold, to love -_

_That is what you own._

_x_

_And now –_

_We have it all._

_A window into the life_

_Of all the world._

_To make, to love, to share -_

_And that is what has grown._

X

Jag älskar dig väldigt mycket,

Sherlock

**X0x0x0x0x0x00x**


	5. Breaking In, Breaking Through

**In which Molly gets tough with Mycroft - impressive!**

* * *

To: mycroftholmes_personal btinternet. com

From: dr_mollyH googlemail. com

Subject: O Brother, where art thou?

Hello Mycroft,

I need to clear up a few things here.

There are things you must know about me:

I am trustworthy

I am fairly intelligent

I can handle bad stuff (we both know this)

I love your brother, very much.

This being known, I need to ask you (since your text is oddly unresponsive) if you have heard from Sherlock? Neither myself, John Watson nor anyone else, has heard from him for almost a week. Or, do you know where he might be? Actually, scratch that last one – of course you know where he might be.

The question is – are you going to tell me?

Mycroft, despite all the smoke and mirrors you two operate under, I have come to recognise that you love each other quite a bit and I know you wouldn't be sitting idly by if he were in trouble – you`d be helping him. So, I want to know, are you _needing_ to help him right now? Is he in trouble?

Or, is he somewhere I can never follow?

I am not a human version of Diogenes, yapping for attention at your feet. I am far away; near no friends or family and I have no power to search for him myself. Plus, I am exhausted with worry, very hormonal and liable to make a mighty nuisance of myself to all and sundry if no answer is forthcoming.

I`m actually starting to terrify myself with the tough guy act, so don`t make me beg.

Please.

Molly

P.S. I have attached a picture you might be interested in. It`s pretty grainy and blurry (typical), but legible. (18 weeks)

**X**

To: dr_mollyH googlemail. com

From: mycroftholmes_personal btinternt. co .uk

Subject: Leverage

My Dear Doctor Hooper,

My contrite apologies for the communication breakdown. I fear things have been a little _tightly wound_ over here at present, and our focus has been a touch – fractured.

Fear not, our _mutual concern_ is alive and well and operating a little off radar, for the sake of national well-being. We do hate loose ends here at the office, and I am assured, many are being tied quite tightly, as I type. The Southern environs of Europe should be sleeping more soundly in their beds before the week is out, as I am sure you too, will be.

I must confess a little surprise at your `tough guy act`. Perhaps the good Doctor Watson has been schooling you? He always was quite the firebrand in times of duress. Or perhaps it was a close acquaintance of his? Very close.

In closing, may I congratulate you, Dr Hooper, on your attachment. You know how to play the game, quite clearly, and I consider myself played.

Just one word…

_Perfect_.

Salutations, and stay in good company.

Mycroft.

**X0x0x0x0x0x0x0x0x**

No. Not that time. That time, there really _was_ something.

Molly Hooper`s heart dipped and leapt again; agitating in her chest. Her fight or flight lizard brain was surging adrenalin around her central cortex and through her body, causing breath to come in short, shallow catches.

Something (someone?) was in the BMC building; more specifically, the lab across the corridor. Seija`s lab.

Molly knew that the insulin production in the pancreatic beta-cells had to be monitored every two hours at this stage in the game. Everyone had taken their turn over the past week and she was singularly un-phased by a nocturnal vigil. She was sleeping quite badly at the moment, since her changing shape and increased progesterone levels had put painful pressure on her hips and pubic bone; especially at night. Plus – might as well get used to disrupted nights. She couldn`t visualise a baby Holmes was going to be still for more than five minutes at time. Even in-utero, the baby was starting to fidget during the times she usually needed to rest. Typical. It was 3:13 am. The stillest watches of the night; except someone, somewhere, had decided to be less still than was acceptable in a deserted building.

The caretakers, or vaktmästare, had knocked off, along with the cleaners, around five hours ago, and Molly had been listening to Radio Uppsala`s best hits of the eighties for most of the time since. She lifted the pipette for what seemed to be the eight thousandth time as _Bananarama_ advised that it ain`t what you do, it`s the way that you do it...

"... and that," remarked Molly Hooper, to no-one in particular, "is what gets results."

Then the sound, like the chinking of glassware on a hard surface. Once, then twice, just to make sure she had acquired a full set of heebie-jeebies.

Molly, very carefully, replaced the pipette onto the bench as her eyes focused on the door with an unwavering intensity. She stepped stealthily to the side of the lab, still facing the door. If she looked away from the door, something was going to appear there – that`s how these things work. Hot fingers against a cold, tiled wall...feeling the chill of the wall through her white lab coat and feeling her pulse hammering in her ears. Clink, clink...definitely signs of scuffling around. _Seija isn`t going to be happy if her cultures are messed with, let alone my bloodied corpse contaminating the agar...Hooper, keep your eyes on that door...Oh God!_

A cold sweat breaks out over Molly Hooper`s set, white face as a distinct, dark shadow passes across the frosted glass of the lab door. A creak and a step and she fears she can hear someone breathing in the darkened recesses of the hallway...just waiting for her to move before they opened her door...

And in a nanosecond, before the act had even registered in her brain; warm fingers close around her wrist and simultaneous voice whispers in her ear...

"Down!"

And they both go down, beneath the workbench, to the cold, tiled floor.

**X0x0x0x0x0x0x0x0x0x0x0x0x**

It`s only once it`s all over that Molly finds she just can`t stop talking. To Seija Härbärgera, of all people.

"I just can`t imagine how they got in! They gave me the card on my first day and I was told – under pain of death – that I couldn't misplace it or lose it. Not even Stephen Hawking or Einstein would be allowed in without a swipe card, they said. I said, it was unlikely those two would make it over the doors without a little help…"

"Drink your tea, Molly. You have had a shock." She pushes the Styrofoam cup to Molly`s lips. "I have the sugar for the shock. Shock sugar, I think. Drink it."

Molly lifted the scalding liquid and drank. It tasted of hot, sweet nothing.

"So, you think he`s gone?"

"Long gone. He was more scared of us than we were of him – "

_Very bloody unlikely_, thinks Molly Hooper, but she says nothing and keeps sipping. Seija has her dark curls loose and waving over her shoulders and Molly notices how fine her ankles and wrists are, and how white her skin. She is tapping the edge of the sink, repeatedly with her fingernails, and kicking the underside of the bench at the same time. It seems entirely unconscious, but she is bristling with energy – maybe an adrenalin surge that had nowhere to go.

Seija had been coming across to relieve Molly of her shift amongst the proliferation of pancreatic beta-cells.

"I was willing to do my share, Seija." She didn't want to be thought of as `_the lazy foreigner_`.

Seija`s bright eyes flashed at her, momentarily breaking the syncopated tapping.

"You are not lazy, Molly – " as if reading her mind. " – you are pregnant."

Oh.

A pause (_yes, it too, was pregnant_).

Molly`s stress levels have been rollercoastering tonight, pregnant or not. "I – I didn't want to mention…not yet."

Seija waved away (a little brusquely?) her protestations. "Hah! Not to be reticent in a lab, Molly. Poisons, radiation; many risks for you and your baby."

"Seija, I am well aware of the no-go areas for up the duff lady scientists! I am _ever so slightly_ aware of the dangers. Stig knows and he assured me I wouldn't be asked to do anything that could be risky."

Seija says nothing, but looks dubious at the obstetric knowledge and concerns of her team leader. Truth be told, Seija seemed dubious about everyone`s opinions but her own, however, Molly has very great cause to be grateful to her this night.

"I don`t know how you found out – "

"Oh, you know – just seeing you eat those awful _pepparkaka_ – ginger biscuits – every morning, noon and night, for nausea. Reliance on the toilet. Puffy hands by mid afternoon. Orange bus ticket for the Stradstraficken – 20 SEK; that`s to the south eastern sector, east of the river, where the maternity hospital is. You have had an orange ticket in your purse every other Thursday, the day you come in late. I notice when you get change for the coffee machine…anything else? Oh, and you wouldn't eat blue cheese at the buffet on Friday…not good for pregnant women."

"Not good for me. I hate blue cheese." Molly attempts flippancy, but Seija`s casual, _don`t care_ delivery and spot on accuracy was becoming slightly unnerving. Very unnerving.

"You are very observant."

Seija breaks into a harsh laugh – a rarity. "Ha! I am the nosy one, Molly. Just nosy. Now, I think we should ring the _polis_. No-one should have been able to break in here. Ever."

**X0x0x0x0x0x0x0x**

Nothing had been taken from anywhere in the BMC. Equipment had been disturbed, but nothing damaged and no sign of vandalism or theft. The Polis, led by Kriminalinspektör Larkssen, were at a loss as to motive. Despite the value of the research, there was little profit to be made from the contents of a research lab, unless one had a large truck outside and several burly thieves to carry stuff. Evidence was limited to a faint footprint on some damp tile, near the sinks in Seija`s lab.

"Liten, som en kvinna, " sniffed Larkssen, eyeing up Molly and Seija`s feet.

Thus, it wasn`t until nearly 7 a.m. that an exhausted and slightly freaked out Molly Hooper stepped into her bedroom at the Hotell Charlotte. Annifrid had appeared scandalised at the hours she was keeping. Very bad for an academic; a scientist; a lady. A lady who was pregnant.

Oh, God. Was there anyone left in Uppsala who _didn`t_ know? Maybe she should have some little cards with storks on printed and circulated:

_`Dr Molly Hooper would like it be be known that she is currently expecting a baby with a currently absent (presumed to be offing bad men and closing down terror cells) Consulting Detective. They are very much in love and living hundreds (if not thousands) of miles apart, just to prove it. Thank you.`_

Gah! Clearly, very over-tired (shucking off her shoes), over-wrought (pulling her jumper over her head), over-stimulated (turning on the ancient shower) and in-over-her-head about...everything.

_Clunk, clunk, clunk_. Oh-oh. The weary donkey water system seems to be protesting. Maybe another academic somewhere in the building is having his monthly shower. _Clunk, clunk, clunk_. As Molly came out of the bathroom, she realises it isn`t the plumbing protesting, but a knock at her door. She sincerely hopes it isn`t Annifrid with a jar of bloody pickles...

And there is only one more emotion available to Molly Hooper as she opens her door and sees the beautifully dishevelled and travel worn figure that is Sherlock Holmes, standing in her hallway, smiling at her.

Overjoyed.

**X0x0x0x0x0x0x0x0x**


	6. Midnight in Uppsala

To: Sherlock_holmes221 .uk (via encryption)

From: mycroftholmes_personal btinternet co .uk

Subject: Priority Alert

Brother of mine,

Intelligence in the _Norra Projekt _warns your prescence is needed. No Magpie connection surmised as of yet, but break in and unusual activity needs further investigation.

Rather than sending in an official agent, I felt this would necessitate the personal touch.

I do, conceed, dear brother, that I may have under-estimated Dr Hooper in both strength and resourcefulness. A mistake I do not intend to repeat.

Please inform when safety is secured.

I do not need another sleepless night.

Mycroft

X0x0x0x0x0x0x0x0x

Molly Hooper smiles and Sherlock Holmes feels it in his chest. Or rather, _on_ his chest, where her face is currently smushed up against, in the wholly inadequate single bed. They are having to lie sideways on to both fit properly, and wrap arms and legs around each other to avoid spilling out onto the floor. Molly has never felt so comfortable and content. She opens her eyes, to prove he`s there (as if visual proof were needed) then closes them again. He can feel the softest scrape of her eyelashes too.

"Molly," he whispers, deep and quiet. "Why are you sleeping in a nun`s cell? Surely that time has passed?"

He feels her snicker silently against his chest. He tightens his arms around her. He can`t really explain why.

She is whispering too. They are both very tired and need to sleep, but they need to speak more.

"We lady scientists and future Nobel prize winners need only the simple life...herring at dawn; cold water showers in hundred year old plumbing; a brisk cycle around the campus before researching and saving lives for up to eighteen hours a day..."

She feels his chest hitch and expand as he laughs, quietly. It is still very early. Birds are twittering on the guttering and only a few cars drive up and down the _gata_ outside.

"Not forgetting the self-flagellation with birch twigs in the snow to aid clarity of mind." He adds.

Molly is not entirely sure this is a fictional scenario with Sherlock, but she sniggers anyway.

"It`s tough, bro, and no mistake."

"`Bro?` Molly, you went to Oxford!" He sounded so like Mycroft at that moment, but she would never be able to tell him. She stifles a yawn.

"Sherlock – I have to know..."

"The why? The how? The who? The what?" Her face is still and warm against him. He touches the soft sheen of her hair with his fingertips. Its a compulsion he isn`t prepared to fight. " Go to sleep, _Sister_ Hooper, and I will tell you much, much later..."

But he never really did.

**X0x0x0x0x0x0x0x**

The moon was glamour itself; nestling like a luminous pearl of great price betwixt the darkened twin spires of Uppsala Cathedral. The Domkyrka of Uppsala is the largest cathedral in all of Scandinavia. The twin-spired, rose-hued Gothic structure stands nearly 400 feet tall and boasts an impressive Gothic interior. Inside are the relics of St. Erik, several notable tombs, and a small museum of ecclesiastical treasures.

And Sherlock Holmes is picking the lock of one of its concealed side entrances; not because he can`t find sufficient SEK for the collection plate, but because it`s one o`clock in the morning, and the cathedral has been closed for seven hours. Molly Hooper is a little bit mortified, but a little bit excited too. She hasn't had chance to have a proper tour of the beautiful, ancient building that took a century to build; however, she was quite prepared to wait until opening time at 9 a.m. Sherlock Holmes appears to have no such restrictions to his timetable.

"Our body clocks are in such a mess." Whispers Molly. "Why are we not tired? Why are we here?"

Sherlock is gritting his teeth slightly as he works the lock. This one is proving to be a little stubborn. "Because, (a) we slept all day (b) you wanted to see the Domkyrka (c) it is a spectacularly beautiful night and (d) I am avoiding your landlady and your nun`s cell for as long as possible…ah, we`re in!"

Oh…

The highest of vaulted gothic ceilings, with criss-crossed masonry stretched dizzyingly above their heads; bathed by the soft glow of hundreds of tiny flickering tea lights and candles. Unlit chandeliers of glimmering beauty swam like phosphorescent jellyfish in the gloom of the midnight cathedral. Their feet clipped, with muted echo, over an endless stretch of parquet floor; leading like a cream and terracotta river towards an astonishingly beautiful rose window at the far end of the nave. The moon glinted individually in a myriad of panes – a thousand moons within one sphere.

The air was still, cool and slightly imbued with a ghostly whiff of incense. As they walked slowly passed recumbent tombs of marbled kings and knights, Molly – usually the scientist – felt the palpable weight of history. A thousand, thousand souls who had passed this way over six hundred years…their lives so diverse and so impossible to imagine; all converging in this place to be awed by its magnificence.

Sherlock pointed out the opulent golden tomb of St. Erik, the patron saint of Sweden, who had been murdered by the Danes after his crusade to Finland. That`s murder for you – always been around, since the beginning of time.

The midnight tour of Uppsala continued apace.

Crossing the Frysis River, where bowers of purple spring flowers were just emerging from alongside its many bridges. The moonlight bathed the riverside cafes, hotels and small gardens in an eerie, silver layer of light. They pass a couple, kissing fervently in the middle of one of the bridges, oblivious to all around them; then, on the next bridge, a couple arguing in violent and colourful sounding Swedish gesticulations. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, but he did take hold of Molly`s hand, unbidden and barely let it go until, as it neared 3am, they stroll more wearily back along the _gata_ to _Hotell Charlotte_. Amazingly, the _Café Ofrandahls_ next door had its lights still on and a faint thread of music stealing out into the Spring night.

They look at each other and Molly smiles. She has never felt more awake and alive.

"Let`s go in," she says.

It was warm, and cosy, with a throb of pleasing background music and conversation. The café was traditionally decorated - dark and old fashioned – and was pretty popular for 3 am.

They had tea.

"British, hey?" smiles the cheery student tending bar.

"Obvious?" Says Sherlock.

"Elementary," he replies, with a flick of his bar towel.

Sitting down, Molly is actually quite glad to take the weight off. She raises her feet and puts them on the chair opposite. Looking over Sherlock`s shoulder, however, she is suddenly gripped by a lurch of wide-eyed recognition. He instantly spins his head to follow her eye line and sees a very petite, dark eyed and dark haired woman, huddled in the darkness of the far corner, next to a man. The low lamp on the table casts a rather sickly glow across her pale and drawn features. Sherlock sees she has Slavic or Russian ancestry by her colouring and bone structure. He turns back to Molly who is still staring, aghast. He speaks in a low murmur.

"Judging by your expression, Dr Hooper, may I infer that the gentlemen accompanying Mrs Amundssen over there at three o`clock in the morning, is most definitely not her husband, the Professor?"

"Yes," nods Molly Hooper, suddenly wondering again about that biology book. "You sodding well may."

**X0x0x0x0x0x0x0x0x**


	7. Realisations

From: Sherlock_holmes221 Hotmail. co .uk

To: doc_jhamish_watson ntl world co uk

Subject: File under _Miss Me?_

John,

I do appear to have been a little remiss with my email, and for that, I am sorry (See, I am learning that disappearing again without a moment`s notice is perhaps not the done thing, all other _disappearances_ considered).

The upshot of the matter was, that an agency with links to Mr Moriarty had shown signs of activity in Barcelona, causing my brother to get his knickers in a twist. _Apologies, again, for that last appalling image_. You know what these tiresome government agencies are like regarding internet security and general _accidental whistle-blowing_, so I was unable to send anyone notice without threat of an air strike (a _slight exaggeration, perhaps_). Still, the surprising number of increasingly abusive emails clogging up my inbox did hint that, perhaps, I could have found some way to leave word.

_A bit not good_.

I will try to answer some of your (less perilous) queries as well as I may. Please attend…

Regarding the _Missing Liturgy_ – the librarian did it. Mr Fitzroy McPherson was, as we deduced, a habitual hypochondriac; fearful that every existing illness was his next one. Remember how he wore gloves, even for the everyday books? The hand gel, his _google _search history (quite a read, I assure you) and sick record corroborated this. I saw his handwriting on the faculty noticeboard and managed to match it to one of the notes (that you found to be _so_ hilarious) passed under my door when I was _Professor Doyle_. Mr McPherson knew I wasn't Professor Doyle. He knew who I was and, from the IP address traced by Gregson, I found him to be quite the contributor to my _Science of Deduction_ Blog…for many, many years. Looking back, I do remember some of his comments and, however naïve and poorly formed his theories were, I couldn't deny he was – _keen_. It was, therefore, Mr McPherson who decided that he would gain my attention in a far more dramatic and effective way. He would devise a crime that would be of interest to me and would bring me up to Edinburgh. He wanted my attention. How bizarre. Most criminals want quite the opposite.

Thus, armed with this knowledge, John, I decided a trap must be set for my improbable _fan_. I concocted a completely fabricated blog entry about the dangerous and carcinogenic effects of mentholated oil when combined with ancient parchment. I made it appear like a biochemical time bomb, waiting to go off for anyone unfortunate enough to combine the two. We both know that McPherson reeked of _Olbas oil_ – I could smell it from every desk in that library – a man who was never well, and carried it around like a talisman, to ward off evil germs.

The results were, even for _your_ sense of showmanship, quite dramatic. As you know, we had to leave, but Gregson was able to join forces with DI Moffat in Edinburgh, and catch our frail friend in the library strong room at 2 am, trying to replace the book, presumably to be followed by a nocturnal bath in sheep dip to rid him of the `toxins`. Case solved. Book unharmed. Thief banged to rights. He still sends me messages though. I think he may be under the care of mental health workers. From reading a few of the messages, I do hope so.

Regarding the bears – _case exaggerated_! I do wish you would not choose to feature such simplistic examples of my reasoning powers in your blog, John. This was child`s play, but you insist on flagging up the twee-ness of wandering bears. Mary delighted in informing me that the _Case of the Edinburgh Wanderers_ has had a record number of hits. I despair at what she has dubbed, my _fanbase_.

You may also not be aware of the fact that I dropped in on Molly Hooper this week. In Sweden. I had finished my business in Barcelona and Mycroft requested I call in to take a closer look at a break in at the Universitet where Molly is helping out on a research project. There had, apparently, been an intruder, yet nothing was taken. I spoke with Kriminalinspektör Larkssen of the Uppsala Polis Department and he was curteous enough to share photographs of the scene with me (how curteous without Mycroft`s intervention remains to be seen). A single footprint; size five or six. A small man, or, perhaps a woman. No fingerprints and no real motive. Interesting.

Molly had insisted she show me some of the sights of her newly adopted town which did include a rather traditional cafe-bar near to her hotel. By a fortunate chance, we saw the wife of her Project leader, Professor Stig Amundssen, sat in a compromisingly close entanglement with a man who was not the Professor. You know that extra-marital liaisons (or, indeed liaisons of any kind) are of little interest to me, on the whole. Sentimental attachment is where people start to get neglectful and sloppy of clear thinking, however, so it can be useful to the criminologist at times. Consquently, I found myself in the _streck toaletter_ (lavatories in the bar), checking feet. I know this may sound a little odd to you, John (_yes, I do see this, on occasion_) but I did also see the feet of Ms Amundssen`s companion. They were small. Probably around a five or six. Interesting, no?

A remote connection, I realise, but combined with the very high chance of said companion gaining access to the Professor`s swipe card to enter the lab, and the layer of crocus pollen adhering to his shoes (crocus plants are prolific on the campus lawn at present) and you can see that suspicions may be developing. A strange observation, perhaps unconnected – said companion of Lorka Amundssen had the most compelling gait – he walked and moved like an old man, but in a young man`s body. Clearly, a person who had issues with flexibility.

Molly doesn`t want me to speak to the Professor about the situation. She considers it too tenuous and not worth the trouble it could cause. I will continue to monitor this case, alongside the local division. More data is most definitely needed. Molly promises to keep me informed.

Thus, John I feel we are, once again, up to date with my doings. Please feel free to add to your growing canon of works, if you must. Molly has clearly been reading over my shoulder, and insists that I ask how you, Mary and Sholto are.

So, I hope you are all well. How many minutes has Sholto managed to sleep after the seven o`clock feed? My records are currently shot to pieces due to so much European travelling. Please ask Mrs Hudson if she will buy milk, since I am home tomorrow. She is deeply suspicious of email and I have repeatedly and unsuccessfully tried to teach her to text. She refuses to use predictive. Also, please ask Lestrade to stop adding his poetry to my _Body of Work Blog_. It is no longer funny and his use of syntax is quite distressing.

Sherlock

**xox**

"Hmm..." Mary Watson is reading over her husband`s shoulder. "Sherlock is visiting Molly in Uppsala? For real?"

John Watson, who has been frequently snorting with laughter during the email, grins wryly as he closes the lid of his laptop. "It seems so. I really hope he isn`t driving her too bonkers over there. Days can be very long in Scandinavia at this time of year. Did you know he had a _stalker_ in Edinburgh? Hilarious! At least he`s not in any sodding danger again."

Mary raises an eyebrow as she takes the bottle of red wine over to the table.

"Isn`t he?" She mutters, under her breath, with a tiny smile.

**Xoxoxoxoxox**

To: mycroftholmes_personal btinternet co .uk

From: dr_mollyH googlemail co .uk

Subject: Disparu?

Apologies, Mycroft. Sherlock is not here. The east wind has taken him back, and I imagine he will be at Baker Street before the day is over. Didn`t he mention it?

I must thank you for your trust. I know it isn`t easily given.

The case of the break in is still without sufficient data, but we (myself and the attachment) thank you for your intervention. It was needed and much appreciated. Please feel free to intervene in that manner whenever you feel you may.

Kind regards

Molly x

(no tough guy this time... )

P.S. Much better attachment this time, also – 21 weeks and waving!

**Xoxoxoxooxoxoxooxox**

To: dr_mollyH googlemail co .uk

From: agra_watson_now66 gmail. co .uk

Subject: Sherlocked

Dearest Moll,

The game is up, my pet.

Don`t worry, John is too sweet and too much of a man to realise, but I know about you. And Mr Holmes.

Molly, please don`t freak out and think you need to do anything – I am the secret keeper to the secrets of the world. When people need to know things, they get to know them. Anything else is irrelevent. I love Sherlock to death – he is the male version of me (without the swag, natch!) and I absolutely and totally get how you two work. When I got the chance to have John, I simply could not believe the serendipity of the universe, and I didnt argue. I took him and I kept him. He is everything I want and everything I need.

I suggest you do the same.

Sherlock needs you. I know you enough to know you are not going to put up with his shit if it gets to be too much. Reining him in is something he doesn`t need to realise is happening, until it is. You are a clever girl, Molly, and if you can handle the maesltrom than surrounds Sherlock, and still love him, then go for it!

Sure, I get it. He is proper sexy and unobtainable. Two things that can guarantee action in any continent, any language, any religion, colour or creed. He dresses like he`s doing a shoot with Dolce and Gabanna; doesn`t drink or eat if he`s taken with a case and utterly ignores you...it`s sexy and everyone understands.

Thing is, Moll, you are no fangirl – no crush vixen who thinks she can convert Sherlock Holmes to the ways of the flesh. You are a very clever, under the radar, seriously caring, genuinely bright woman, and you can handle him, if you want him.

What Sherlock wants is a totally different mystery to me. Somedays, I think he feels he is lacking something, but it is going to take a very special person to break into what that is ...

Molly, I know we can be friends. You are the girl who stands in the cherry cardigan and takes on the weight of the world.

Sherlock Holmes is a pretty decent human being. My husband thinks so, and so do I. I happen to think he is taken with you (..._and there is something else,_ except I don`t know what it is yet!) Sherlock is at his most human when you are around. You are 100% what he needs - don`t be polite, lady, take him and make him your own.

He won`t feel a thing.

Mary x

**x0x**

Mary looked at the email that had just erupted from her head, through her fingers, and onto the screen.

And she deleted it.

Now was not the time.

**X0x0x0x0x0x0x0x0x0x0x**


	8. The Viking and The Matryoshka

" – bara hålla ut ur hans sätt är allt jag `m säger..."

Molly looks up from the autoclave, where she has been loading some volumetric flasks. Goran and Janik enter the room in their white lab coats. They switch to English, out of courtesy, when they spot her.

"I just don`t get why he`s in such a bad mood. I changed the mixed bed resin filter and calibrated his damn resistance meter! You know how I hate doing that."

"Has someone got a bee in his bonnet?"

Both men look at her in puzzlement. A colloquialism too far, maybe? She smiles.

"Who`s mad at you, Janik? You are always so helpful to me! No-one should upset you." She smiles, to cheer him up. It works.

"Ah, my little Molly-cule (his little joke name for her) – you are a little bit of cherry blossom in a field of dandelions!" He slumps at a bench, sighing.

"Professor Amundssen just, as you say, `_ripped him a new one_` for forgetting to check the fuse on the dispersion homogenizer. Now, Molly, he is sulking." Goran clearly has little sympathy for his friend.

"I most certainly never say that particular phrase," laughs Molly, but she is concerned, and not for Janik.

**x0x**

Professor Stig Amundssen`s office is small, messy and packed with junk. It is the diametric opposite of his laboratories and Molly realises what a huge effort it must be for him to keep his work life so immaculately organised. Books and diplomas overflow from inadequate shelving; dead plants jostle for room with empty coffee cups; at least six Rubik cubes in different stages of completion; old newspapers and at least five (Molly counted) framed pictures of Lorka. Scowling inwardly at the pictures, Molly removes a cap gun and a bag of sweets charmingly called SKUM, from the chair and sits down. Stig looks up from his PC and gives her a smile, but it doesn`t reach his eyes. There is a distinct absence of _booming_, too.

"Hej, Molly." He looks tired, around the eyes and his hair is wiry and unkempt. Shirt on it`s second day, too (_whoops, she`d have to watch that little habit that was forming...)_. "How are you – and the little one? No more troubles since our little break in?"

"No, I`m – we are both fine, thank you." _But what about you, my mountain of a man, who is more of a hillock today_? She picks up one of the framed photographs, buying time to formulate what she wants to say.

"Er – how is Lorka? I saw her – in the bookshop the other day."

Molly observes a cloud pass across his face. Yup, the wife (_stop it, Sherlock-echo_!)

Stig runs a huge hand through his unruly hair and sighs the kind of sigh that ruffles papers from across a room.

"Ah, Lorka..." another sigh. "Just fine, fine." Then, in an astonishing _volte face_: "Don`t get married, Molly. It`s sometimes such a tricky little game."

"Stig, please tell me if I can help? I`m a pretty good listener, and I know you just haven`t been yourself lately." And he looks into the marmoset brown eyes of Dr Molly Hooper and he doesn`t stand a chance.

**x0x**

When Stig Amundssen had met Lorka Gorev that cold January day in St. Petersburg, she had been the brightest, happiest, chirpiest little thing. Serving the teas and coffees at the St. Petersburg State University Conference for Stem Cell Research, she had ensured he had the largest plate of biscuits at his table, and the hottest refills before he even asked. Divorced for over five years, Stig had been entranced by her tiny dark looks; pale skin and red, red lips, like a matryoshka doll in human form. Her parents were dead and she had only distant relatives and few friends. She laughed, she cooked, she kissed like an angel sent from an exotic heaven; she was the honeyed water to his parched, lonely desert. His oasis.

They were married within four weeks and she cut any ties she still had and came back to Uppsala, to make a new life with her блондинка викинг (blond Viking). They made a surprising couple – his huge, blondness striding next to her tiny, scampering darkness, but people soon got used to seeing them around campus, and smiled hellos to The Viking and The Matryoshka.

Within months, however Lorka`s behaviour began to take a different turn. She always liked to be tidy, but Stig was now woken by vacuuming at six in the morning. His study was tidied so often that he lost track of almost everything he had put down (and that was a lot of stuff to lose track of, judging by his office) and was constantly losing important bits and pieces. She had always been an excellent cook but had begun cooking huge meals for just the two of them. Stig was touched by her nurturing skills, but he was beginning to have trouble fitting into his trousers, and was further troubled by his wife deciding she would rather wait on him whilst he ate, then later take food to her room to eat alone. He feared an eating disorder, but her shape never really changed.

Also, Lorka began shunning Stig`s university friends, with whom she had shared drunken dinner parties only a few weeks before. Every time an invitation was issued, she found some excuse to stay at home. In fact, other than shopping trips for groceries and cleaning products, Lorka seldom went out at all (_Try Café Ofrandahls at 3 am, thought Molly Hooper, wryly_). When home in the evenings, after the odd dining arrangements were done, Stig would go to look for things in his obscenely tidy office and Lorka would go on the internet, typing furiously for hours at time. If Stig asked, in conversation, what she was writing, she met his eyes with a look he could only liken to – hatred.

How had his wife of only a few months; his exotic Matryoshka, turned into a creature who looked at him with loathing? What had he done? Who was this creature he had torn from her home and brought to live with him in a land so far away? Why was love such a devastating and destructive force? It shouldn't be like this.

"Ah, Molly – you must think of me as a foolish middle-aged man who should have known better."

"No! I – "

"Yes, you should. We used to be different though, Molly. When I first knew my little Lorka, she would sit with me, for hours at a time most nights, asking me all about myself, my work, my family, my interests; even the names of my childhood pets! She wanted to know all of me. Everything. What has turned a woman like this into this – this hostile stranger, full of barely contained venom?"

Molly watches as he covers his face with those hands and shakes his head in despair. No-one should have to feel this way. She has become so fond of Stig`s generosity of spirit and paternal consideration that it actually pains her to see him like this. She tilts her head and suddenly makes up her mind.

"I don`t know, Stig, truly." She watches as he rubs his eyes and contemplates going home to a wife who is a stranger.

"But I know a man who might."

**x0x0x00x0x00x0x0x**

* * *

**Swedish Translation: "Just keep out of his way is all I`m saying." (I sincerely hope!)**

**Guinevere81 and Arcoiris - I hope you both, with Swedish connections, can excuse my poor attempts here! Thanks to you both for your comments.**

**Thanks also to (Guest) Morgen, to whom I couldn`t reply, for such a lovely message. :)**


	9. Telling

From: Sherlock_holmes221 Hotmail. co .uk

To: dr_mollyH googlemail. com

Subject: Schrodinger's Cat

Molly,

Another puzzle in Uppsala? It`s like Christmas! You are clearly trying to seduce me with puzzles, conundrums and exercises in logic.

This is obviously why I love you.

I shall be enchanted to look into the Professor`s little puzzle. My interest was piqued last month when we spotted his wife in the café with her quaintly shod companion. There is so much more to this than meets the eye – I absolutely guarantee it.

I am, however, having to slightly delay my visit since the imbeciles fitting out my new laboratory have put gas outlets directly adjacent to the dehumidifier and air conditioning – a disaster waiting to happen. I am asking Mycroft to arrange a _little accident_ if another mistake is made. This said, I am more than a little thrilled at the near completion of my `_new playpen_` (as Anderson so charmingly calls it). The naming of a laboratory seems a self-indulgent and slightly ridiculous thing to do, so no more of that. In reply to the recent (and astonishing) attachments from you, I respond with some of my own. You will, no doubt, note the new ELISA plate – even I feel slightly embarrassed at the cost of _that_. Ignore the contents of the new lab fridge…despite warnings, Mrs Hudson has been storing her milk, cheese and gin in it. What is so difficult to understand about biohazards? Health and safety is at risk if people refuse to follow protocol around chemicals and food.

Also, for your information, the modernisation of 221A is progressing reasonably well. Bob the plasterer has been more than accommodating since I helped him out with his son`s tax fraud issue. You and the attachment will have the smoothest walls in London – I am assured. Work, apparently, will be completed by the beginning of December – in time for D-Day.

Molly, I must now return to the sticky little question we discussed last time I saw you, and in your last email.

Telling.

In particular – telling John.

Try not to be offended, but at the moment, I am likening our growing joint project (_some might say, baby_) to Schrodinger and his cat. When exactly, does quantum superposition ends and reality collapse into one possibility or the other? If, in John`s world, if the baby is neither real, nor unreal, is there really a baby at all? We are, at present, in the Copenhagen interpretation of quantum mechanics, where, in theory, the baby does not exist (to John); the baby is simultaneously real and not real, just because he has not looked inside that box. I cannot say why, Molly, but I need our cat to be ambiguous to everyone who is not us. I need, I think, to understand the meaning of the cat before the box is opened.

I fully realise, my explanation is lacking. A tad clinical, in matters of emotional reactiveness?

Apologies. I have likened our baby to a doomed feline.

I will stop now. I do sometimes listen to the advice I am given.

I will see you at the airport – September 16th. Assure Professor Amundssen that all is not lost, even though it might well be.

alltid ditt,

Sherlock

**xoxox**

To: doc_jhamish_watson ntlworld . co .uk

From: not_your_housekeeper gmail. co .uk

Subject: Test

Dear John,

This is Mrs Hudson.

I am trying out E MAIL.

Sherlock has insisted.

I`m not sure

You will get this

But here

Goes.

Oh, I think I`ve been doing something wrong there. Think it`s sorted now. Well, what a to-do! If we`d had this in the old days, Mr Hudson may still have been walking around now. Old letters were his downfall, you see. Evidence. I`m not sure what happens to these kind of letters (E MAIL) when they get sent. I imagine they just disappear into the ether. Got to move with the times, though, so here I am.

The house has been a building site for such a long time, John, that I am seriously thinking of staying with Mrs Turner until the laboratory is done. Dust and workmen everywhere! I`ve had to go out and buy six new mugs, since I wouldn`t want to be serving tea to those rough lads in my best Royal Doulton china. Sherlock shouts at them a lot of the time, but they don`t seem to mind him. They actually quite like him, in fact! Joe, the plumber, has been reading your Blog, he told me. I caught them all (including Sherlock) sitting around in my back yard yesterday, talking about the best way to brick up a body in a wall without anyone finding out! What ideas he must be giving them, I just don`t know. Also, I think they were all _smoking_.

I think I`m quite getting the hang of this.

How is Mary and little Sholto? I hope he`s settling now. All that crying! I just don`t know how my nerves will stand it. I was going to ask you over for tea and cake last Tuesday, but Sherlock`s parents dropped in to visit, with Mycroft too. Very unusual, don`t you think? Sherlock was in one of his `moods` before they arrived: you know, pacing around, looking for cigarettes, muttering, huffing and puffing, in general. You`d think it was a delegation from the tax office, the way he was going on – and they are such a lovely couple! I just have no idea where those boys came from!

Anyway, I was just taking up a tray of tea, when I heard Mrs Holmes cry out! Rushing up, I could see she was quite tearful, and her husband was having to pat her on the shoulder. What had those bad boys been saying? A mother`s love is special, John, and I don`t like to see it being abused! I must have looked a little scandalised, since Mycroft took the tray and gave me a smile (or as close as he gets).

"Don`t worry, Mrs Hudson," he said. "My mother has quite the flair for the dramatic at times. Happy tears, that is all."

Strange, but the lady _did_ look quite happy, even though she was dabbing her eyes. Sherlock was lying across the sofa, in his blue dressing gown, looking as innocent as a new born baby. I knew then, that, whatever had caused such a shock, was probably down to him.

"Mrs Hudson," he said, "why don`t you go down to the kitchen, get a towel, and wipe that look of disapproval off your face. And bring some biscuits. Please."

And all the time, John, he was smiling. They all were. Very strange, don`t you think?

Well, I know you like a mystery, but I don`t think I`ll ever get to the bottom of this one. I just hope those boys treat their mother properly!

I am going to try and post this E MAIL now, John. It is actually my third try. I don`t quite know where the other ones ended up. I might ask Sherlock to try and find them, somewhere on the interweb.

Wish me luck.

Martha xxx (one each for you three)

**X0x0x0x0x0x0x0x0x**

* * *

**Arcoiris: You got your wish! :)**


	10. Knowing

Maibritt Saftstrom sat heavily down at the table next to Molly. Her tray was heavy laden, as was she.

"What is that you have, Molly?" She was eyeing Molly`s cheese on rye bread and dill pickle. "That can`t be enough for you – both."

Uh-oh.

Shrodinger`s cat seemed to have been let, very suddenly, out of its box.

Within seconds, Maibritt was joined by Goran, Janik and Johann, round the canteen table. Their twinkling eyes and knowing smiles told their own story.

"Dirty, rotten secret keeper!" Teased Goran, pointing and laughing. "Here we all are, growing cells in-vitro, and there you are, growing them in-utero! Congratulations!"

"Ja, grattis på din bebis!"

Molly was touched, but also a little mortified. For being the centre of attention in the cafeteria, and for the unspoken (in either Swedish, or English) questions of `_who is the father and where is he?`_

**_x0x_**

Seiga caught up with her after lunch, walking towards their respective laboratories. She had seen quite a bit of the surly biologist since the night of the intruder, and Seiga always seemed to be around when Molly was walking home, or from the bus stop. _Does she lie in wait for me? And if so, why?_ Seiga`s bright blue eyes always seemed to be watching her; assessing her – she didn`t seem to _do_ casual. A fierce intensity was her go-to expression. Generally, though, Molly was glad of the company, and Seiga kept her amused with gossip and information about her co-workers.

"Maibritt is the one who eats all the biscuits in the staff room. She thinks she`s got rid of all the crumbs, but there are always some remaining on the top seam of her pocket, too close for her to see. Plus, she always insists on having Lab twelve, the nearest to the staffroom; and sets the clock five minutes fast in their so we all leave, and she still has time to eat them, in secret."

Molly always laughed at these observations. Seiga didn`t seem the bitchy type, and you couldn`t fault her accuracy.

Svetlana Edmunssen (PA to the Dean) secretly drove a tractor when her husband was out at work. Seiga was not sure why.

Bjorn Vletd, dietician, wanted to marry his girlfriend, and had bought her an engagement ring, but she was going to reject him, since she was having an affair with his sister.

"Hej, Molly. I hear your secret is out. I assure you it wasn`t down to me, or Stig, but only you yourself."

Molly stopped, in indignation. "I haven`t told a soul, Seiga, I can assure you."

"No, but your twenty six week uterus tells the story loud and clear." She pulls back Molly`s lab coat, smiling – almost fondly? Unusual for her.

Molly looked down. A very obvious bump of baby. Who was she kidding? She, of all people, should realise that, if people have eyes, they tend to use them.

"I`m fat. Huge. Elephantine. I will have to ask Janik to reinforce my lab stool." And Seiga actually laughed. Hmm, thinks Molly Hooper, she has got a human side after all.

"Come on Molly, get back to work. Stop wallowing."

"Apt term – for a baby hippo!"

And much later, when Molly is lying in bed in the nun`s cell, rolling her hands gently over the baby, she suddenly realises that the only piece of gossip/observation/pure guesswork never discussed by Seiga was surely the most obvious – the massive change in Lorka Amundssen. Everyone else had noticed something was bothering Stig, all assuming Lorka was the reason why. Everyone except for Ms Observant herself. And Molly wonders why that is.

**X0x0x0x0x0x0x0x0x**

To: Sherlock_holmes221 Hotmail. co .uk

From: agra_watson_now66 gmail. co .uk

Subject: Run him

Hi Sweetie

Long story short – please take my husband away for me.

I don`t want you to misconstrue, but I need him to go with you to Uppsala to help with Molly`s big fat Swedish case. It`s not because I want him running around Scandinavia and getting into all sorts of bother – except it just might be that _I do_.

You know how it is with John; he is a man who loves the danger and the thrill of the chase, and I fear that all this domesticity is just a bit undiluted at the moment. He hasn`t said anything, natch, but I know how much he enjoyed the Edinburgh shindig (_case, sorry_) and I know you miss him.

_Yes you do._

I think the two of you, running the gaunlet (or maybe just the smorgesbord) again would benefit just about everyone and you know how I love a happy ending. John may harbour some idea that I am helpless with baby stuff without him, but really, it`s quite a refreshing change for me to do this kind of _wet work_. (I wouldn`t be that grim with most people, but you, Sherlock, are not most people...)

So go, have fun, help an unhappy man and make a man happy. You have my blessing. I will keep an eye on the alterations for you if you want me to. That lab seems to be taking an awfully long time to finish.

Smooches,

Mary

PS I`ll let you tell him x

**x0x**

To: agra_watson_now66 .uk

From: Sherlock_holmes221 .uk

Subject: Run him

Mary,

I do appreciate your concern and, of course, John would be an asset to any case (apart from his incessent chronicling and sensationalising of events). I had made arrangements for accommodation, but they can still, at this late hour, be changed.

Should you, however, feel the need for him to stay and help (since Sholto appears to still have quite an irregular routine) I would understand.

If not, then off to Uppsala we go. Excellent.

Molly will be charmed to see us both.

Please do not trouble yourself to check on my builders. Mrs Hudson has them in hand and I am promised completion in early December. Best to stay away from such mess, dust and frequent strings of expletives.

Sherlock

PS Smooches?

Mary closed her Blackberry email with a impish little smile hovering across her lips. Chess is her favourite game, and the next move is his, whether he knows he`s playing her or not.

**x0x**


	11. Hidden in Plain Sight

**Some inspiration taken from `The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez` by ACD**

* * *

To: agra_watson_now66 gmail . co .uk

From: doc_jhamish_watson ntl world. co .uk

Subject: The Case of the Russian Raybans

Dear Mary,

I do miss you both very much. Did you find Sholto`s panda? I think I last saw it under the dresser (I went to my mind palace to remember!)

You asked, and I am reporting the day`s events – _emails from Uppsala_, if you like. It does seem strange, but a little bit sexy, emailing you from foreign climes, like some grand explorer or adventurer…

e.g. "_Day 45: Rations are low; water has been poisoned. Carruthers has disappeared into the jungle with his blunderbuss. I fear that`s the last we`ll see of him…"_

Sherlock and I are inhabiting a charming little B&B on _Bagare Gata_. You would not believe what that translates to in English. I do not believe Sherlock didn`t choose it on purpose. It`s very chintzy; lots of floral patterns and dried flower arrangements, and our bed even has a frill.

Yes, I did say BED – _singular_. The Swedes (just like the rest of the world, it seems) want us to be a couple and we have a lovely, mahogany double bed. Sherlock has promised to sleep on the couch (just like he does at home, really) and is generally being quite accomodating.

Strange. And un-nerving.

We saw Molly this morning at the Biomedical Centre when we visited Professor Amundssen. She was working hard at her bench and just had time to give us a wave as we cut through. The refreshing Swedish climate must suit her I think, since she`s looking really good. All of the London grime and pollution has been washed away, and she seems all bright and shiny. It did seem a bit weird seeing them both in a lab, but not at Bart`s and none of that awkward sexual tension there used to be. It really is great they can both be friends now.

The Professor (Stig) has an office which could rival Sherlock`s kitchen at Baker Street – crap everywhere! Sherlock`s eyes were all over it, and what do you know, he homes in on the only object in the room Stig couldn`t account for. On top of a pile of books, near the desk, was a pair of 1970`s aviator Raybans. Sherlock had them down as Russian fakes before we could draw breath, but the Prof had no idea who`s they were – they wouldn`t go near his own head size – probably more suited for a child or small person.

We found out that Stig is quite a superbrain with the insulin beta-cells project. Imagine, Mary, if a cure for diabetes was found in our lifetime? He is a brilliant man, that much was clear. His research is at the forefront of this area of medicine. Molly is so lucky to have got a place on his team – very cutting edge stuff. Was a touch jealous. I must admit, Morstan, it made me yearn a bit for furthering _my_ medical career...

Sherlock seemed to know quite a bit about Mrs Amundssen already – from Molly, no doubt. He suggested that the Professor should invite us both (as foreign researching biologists) for dinner tomorrow night, where we can meet the lady in question. This much is happening.

As I type, Sherlock is lying across (_his_) couch, researching Russian Biologists and texting almost constantly. I think he has a few ideas. Actually, I`ve seen very little of him tonight, since he barely touched dinner (quite a lot of herring, to be honest) and nipped out for three hours, before returning, half an hour ago. I think he was getting the lie of the land, but wanted to do that alone. He has asked me to get what I could from the glasses, but, apart from seeing they are prescription Russian fake Raybans, I can`t fathom very much. Molly had an early night, as she has a rotten cold, but I`ll catch up with her tomorrow, hopefully.

As you curl up in our bed, please do not feel the need to encourage Sholto in there for company. It`ll be hell to get him out of there when I get back.

This is my report, you weirdo,

More tomorrow

Love, love, love

John x

**x0x**

" – so, clearly it is L-Citrulline, not L-Arginine which prevents diabetes induced glomerular hyperfiltration in rats." smiles Sherlock Holmes, breezily, stirring his tea.

Stig plays along, nodding.

"Ah, Professor Coram, you musn`t forget the Proteinuria, too." As John Watson speaks, his eyes meet his friend`s momentarily, and he detects an impressed eyebrow raise.

"Indeed," replies Sherlock.

Dinner has been served, eaten and cleared away without event. Lorka Amundssen is indeed a tiny, beautifully proportioned raven haired beauty, with the cheekbones Sherlock remembered from the Cafe all those weeks ago. She was minus her red lipstick, but she still wore the same downcast and troubled demeanour. Stig had presented his visiting biologists, Professors Coram and Sherringford, as an unmissable dinner engagement she simply couldn`t refuse without downright snubbery. Thus, she served, sat and endured. Until Sherlock Holmes leapt up to help her clear the table, and brooked no refusal.

"It is the least I can do." He watches her as she puts the substantial leftovers into several plastic tubs, placing them in the fridge.

"I like to be economical." Her voice is soft and light; barely audible above the dishwasher.

"And so tidy." remarks Sherlock, looking around the spotless kitchen, which was a reflection of the rest of Stig`s house. Not a thing was out of place. He had given them a tour of the house, accompanied by a tense looking Lorka.

"A place for everything and everything in its place." She is wiping down the stainless steel of the sink with a unexpected savage vigour.

"Ah, I envy you your storage," Sherlock waves his hand around the kitchen. "My academic rooms in Oxford are cramped and utterly inadequate for my needs. I can barely store my dressing gown, whereas your wardrobes and cupboards are very generous. Furniture making is clearly a Swedish strength."

She stops scrubbing, momentarily, staring away from him, out of the window.

"You miss your homeland, don`t you?" Sherlock`s voice has deepened, becoming embued with an element of empathy and care. Lorka lets out a tiny sigh.

"I miss Russia. Every day." She resumes scrubbing. "It has my heart. One day, we will go back."

After his wife has retired, Stig sits in his study with his two fake colleagues and lights a cigarette. Sherlock looks longingly, but John is highly impressed at his restraint. The nervy tapping of his fingers and feet is all that gives him away.

"Your wife is hiding something very real, Professor, and we need to find it."

Stig looks up, hope in his eyes. "Did you find anything from the glasses?"

"Pfft. Nothing – "

"Ah."

" – other than they are worn by a small man, with a thick nose, puckered forehead, possibly rounded shoulders and eyes that are close together, who had visited his optician twice in six months."

John interjects, internally smiling at Stig`s expression.

"They are a very strong prescription, so whoever has mislaid them, is having trouble reading or seeing anything in much detail."

"I have no idea where they came from."

Sherlock stands and walks to the door; picking up a half full metal wastepaper bin on his way.

"I do, and I think, Professor Amundssen, we should return them to their owner."

**x0x**

Molly Hooper reclines, luxuriously, across the enormous uber-kingsize bed, which is wider than she is long. A crackling fire flickers merrily in the nineteenth century marble fireplace; imbuing a warm glow to the Scandinavian early autumn chill. The original Villa Anna was built in 1870, but renovated in the early noughties, and 150 year old Swedish grandeur sits cheek by jowl with modern luxuries such as whirlpool baths and, of course, saunas. Candles glimmer on every surface, flowers sit in every vase, and room service were just about to deliver some very choice items from the menu – none of which include herring. Villa Anna lay in the heart of the cultural district of Uppsala, next to the fabulous Cathedral, and, despite what Annifrid had claimed of the Hotell Charlotte - Nobel prize winners most definitely _had _stayed here.

Molly hears a key swipe in the door of the suite and it creaking open, and almost rolls onto her stomach before thinking better of it. An upside down Sherlock Holmes looks down on her from above, smiling an upside down smile.

A dark lock of hair falls over his forehead and his blue eyes are glittering with an emotion not a million miles away from – _smug_.

He still looks heart-breakingly fantastic. Sigh.

"John caught the last flight out of Arlanda – " He throws himself on the bed next to her, coat, scarf and all. There is plenty of room. They both stare at midnight blue silk canopy of the bed above their heads. " – sends his farewells. Quite glad to be going back to England, for whatever reason."

"Sherlock, you know the reason."

"Oh, yes." Sighing. "Wife, baby, moustache-growing..."

This time she hits him with a luxurious looking silk pillow. Then, serious...

"The case? Stig?" She turns to face him, getting close enough to bury her face in his Belstaff. It smell of smoke. Strongly.

"Sherlock, what has happened? Was there a fire? Is anyone hur – "

There is a firm knock at the door and Sherlock sits up abruptly and kisses her, murmuring:

"Starving. Give me fifteen minutes, a hot bath and I`ll tell you how things came to pass."

And this time, he did.

**x0x**

Sod it.

_Flygning försenas_. Flight delayed. Whatever language used, it was pretty shit news.

John Watson sets down his bags, picks up his free drinks tokens and resigns himself. He wouldn`t be seeing his wife and son tonight, thanks to Scandinavian fog and some undercarriage issues. Oh dear. Sitting down and flipping open his laptop, John realises how he might fill in the next few, depressing hours.

To: agra_watson_now66 gmail. co .uk

From: doc_jhamish_watson ntlworld . co .uk

Subject: The Case of the Russian Raybans pt. 2

Mary, Mary, quite contrary...

Fog has stopped play, so I am sending you a final (I hope) email from Uppsala (or thereabouts).

It was both tragic and fantastic, let me tell you...

**X0x**

Sherlock stood outside Lorka`s bedroom door and turned, gravely to the Professor.

"You must trust me and follow my lead. Do you trust me?"

Stig nods, his eyes huge and afraid.

Sherlock knocks and doesn`t wait for admittance. Lorka sits, cross-legged in the middle of the double bed, her lap-top open, her face saying _I wish I`d poisoned your soup._

"I think you need to leave my room – all of you!" She slams shut the lap top. Sherlock deftly swipes it from the bed, whilst John takes the waste bin and places it in the middle of the floor, near to the huge, pine wardrobe.

"Mrs Amundssen – Lorka, may I present a few ideas to you? Your husband is extremely concerned that you are not the woman he married. He fears you are unhappy and have fallen out of love with him. I beg to differ, since I think you were never _in love_ with him."

He opens the lap top, scrolling down the message board. Lorka`s eyes dart around the room, but her Viking-esque husband is blocking any feasible exit.

"Your conversations with ` близнец` are all in Russian, but their length and frequency suggest a close and intimate relationship. When Dr Amundssen married you, it was with the understanding you were alone in the world, but that wasn't true, was it?"

She looks at Sherlock, realising he probably isn't a visiting English Biologist. "You don`t know me, or my life, whoever you are." Barely a whisper.

"Perhaps I don`t know you, personally, but the internet knows your family." He turns the lap top around to show Lorka a blurry picture of two, almost identical three or four year olds; wearing stripy t shirts, shorts and sandals. Blurry or not, the eyes and hair are Lorka`s.

"You, Mrs Amundssen, and your twin brother, Viktor."

"No!" Stig steps forward, but goes no further.

Sherlock continues tapping and scrolling.

"Last night I spent a few hours reading up on Russian diabetes research."

"Why would that interest you?" Her calmness is quite chilling.

"Mainly because it interested you so much. Your job at the stem cell conference in St Petersburg necessitated a move of 500 miles from your home town – no waitressing job is worth such a wrench, but you did it all the same. And you did it for love, but not the love of the man who stands in this room with tears in his eyes. You knew Professor Stig Amundssen to be at the top of his field in pancreatic cell research and you determined to find him, meet him and make him fall in love with you – "

"You are crazy – "

"You needed to be as close to the Professor as possible since his research was something you needed to access. Not for yourself, but for Viktor. Poor Viktor. He had started out so well – top of his class; awards; research grants given on the promise of great progress, but that never came. Viktor was moderately intelligent, but with limits. He was no great scientific forerunner; no Stig Amundssen. Viktor – the boy who was only minutes younger than you, but whom you protected all his life, was in danger of losing is prestigious position at St. Petersburg and the accompanying funding, most of which he had spent, unwisely. So, if you could get close to Stig`s research, maybe you could syphon off some choice titbits to send back to Viktor."

If Lorka Amundssen looks like she`s going to bolt, she is pre-empted by John Watson sitting next to her and giving her his empathy face.

"We are here as agents for your husband, but we only want to help a situation where no-one appears to be enjoying themselves." He smiles at her, but Sherlock notices John has let his jacket fall open to partially reveal his revolver and is … quite impressed. Lorka stays seated.

"You thought it would be easy to find the Professor`s research but you didn't realise how tight was the security at the BMC. You tried many, many times to access his home computer, but you hadn't the password, and were afraid to ask. So, at every opportunity, you asked him about his life, hoping to get a clue to open his files. His hometown, family names, friends, hobbies, even pets. You tidy around constantly, hoping to find discarded notes or anything of use. Nothing was working. Ultimately, your Viktor could wait no longer and absconded from St. Petersburg to assist you in your quest. He had no qualms about breaking into the lab with the help of the Professor`s swipe card, and, as your twin, his stature and size of feet were pretty similar to yours. Tiny."

"Problematical though." Sherlock was sitting in a blue chair, opposite the bed, steepling his fingers. "The Professor thinks you are a little Russian orphan with no family and a twin brother may lead him to doubt your integrity, generally. What to do?" He leans forward in his chair, fixing his Icelandic eyes on hers. "Why is Mrs Amundssen buying so much more food than usual? Why is she cooking large amounts which she never shares with her husband, but prefers eating alone in her room. The food goes, but she never gets puts on any weight. She stops going out, except late at night, long after her husband is asleep. She doesn't go out alone, though, but with her beloved brother, to dark and obscure bars where almost no-one will spot them."

Sherlock is standing now, and reaches his hand out to John, who just hands him a lighter. Lorka`s eyes are both fearful and confused and John is sitting so close, he can almost feel her quickening pulse and hot breath. Sherlock casually lights the contents of the bin which take less than thirty seconds to take hold. Within a minute, the flames are licking savagely from the metal bin and an acrid pall of smoke is filling the room.

"Oh my God! You are insane!" Scrambling to her feet, she is gently restrained by John and they all stare as a loud click, followed by a creak, can be heard, and the top of the huge wardrobe opens up and a leg dangles down.

Within seconds, a small dark man has jumped down from the wardrobe, onto the floor and into the waiting arms of Sherlock Holmes.

**X0x**

Mary, it was savage. Viktor Gorev was the man Stig`s wife had valued above all things. Her husband had been the means to an end. They both left, and Sherlock let them. Stig didn't want to bring any scandal on the Universitet or the research. If I ever get home again, please ensure our wardrobes are free of interlopers. I do think I am in no danger. You and Sherlock seem able to hack into my laptop, no matter how intricate my passwords. It is getting light outside already, and I think my flight has been announced. I will sign off now and hope to be in your bed before 9 am. Sherlock is staying in Uppsala to tie up loose ends. I really thought the case would take longer to sort, but it seems over before it`s begun. Sherlock will be back on Tuesday, as Lestrade has emailed him with a case. Lestrade thought Monday, but, Sherlock refused. Do you think he`s slowing down?

Hope you found the panda.

Nothing more to report.

Over and out.

Dr John H Watson

Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers

P.S. Look out of the window – see the moon? See the stars? You are both of those, to me. x

**x0x0x0x0x0x0x0x**

* * *

**Arcoiris: Yep - she`s picking up a few deduction skills, and no mistake**

**Guest: How brilliant! I love the Google Translate nerdiness - am gonna try it out!**


	12. Jellyfish

Well, no wonder he walked in that hunched, pained way – " observes Molly Hooper, from the fireside. "He really _was_ hunched and pained! Squeezing into that wardrobe for hours at a time…"

"Days." Sherlock is sitting at her feet, fiddling with his violin strings. His feet are bare and he wears his red dressing gown – regal splendour in a most regal and splendid hotel suite. Sherlock had decided Molly had spent her last night in the nun`s cell at the Hotell Charlotte. The en-suite sauna had done amazing things with his hair, Molly observed, without comment. _God, will I ever not be full to the brim of how much I love him? I surely hope not._

"The compartment was quite large, however. Little bit Narnia. It had been customised by Viktor and he was able to sit up and read without too much trouble; until he left his glasses behind when he broke into Stig`s office. John could fit in, but I had some difficulty. Stig would never have made it."

Stig. Molly`s hormonally driven heart bled for him.

"Viktor shared her meals, walked out with her in the dark reaches of the city and the night. All he wanted was access, but the computers, as you know, are encrypted. Complex codes and additional memory sticks had to be used. Lorka could steal a memory stick, but she couldn't see inside her husband`s head." He looks thoughtful for a moment, stopping, mid pluck.

"It really is a shame she didn't visit him at his office a little more."

"What do you mean?" She`s watching as he stands with the violin, and arranges some sheets of music on the edge of the huge bed.

"I`m coming to work with you tomorrow, to see the Professor. I will show you then. Now, Molly Hooper, I need you to listen."

She laughs, eyebrows disappearing into her hairline. "All I`ve done is listen, Sherlock Holmes. I am your human sounding board, in the absence of John."

"I mean, listen to some music."

He draws the bow across the strings; tentatively at first, then with increasing confidence. The notes emerge and hang in the air, like a soft dew, crystallising into frost and then thawing again. Molly sits back and lets it wash over in its haunting and iridescent beauty. It was a patina of starry notes, dropping into the velvet blackness of a Scandinavian sky. Even the baby had stopped moving – was it listening?

"It`s astonishing. Like nothing I`ve ever heard before." The air was so still after Sherlock had finished playing, like everything was settling back into position.

"It _is_ nothing you have ever heard before." He tossed her the sheet music. "I`m pretty poor at poetry, so I did something else for you. Still needs a bit of tweaking."

Molly didn't speak. She was reading the inscription at the top of the page.

`_Nights in Uppsala: Nordic Fugue_

_For Molly._

_For always._

_SH`_

**x0x**

Stig Amundssen greets the arrival of Sherlock Holmes at his laboratory the next morning with a resigned air of sadness and inevitability. Lorka Gorev has gone, along with her brother, taking away her secrets and, very probably, the heart of a Swedish scientist. It is all very sad. A game where no-one is the winner.

"I am grateful, still, Mr Holmes, for your intervention. To think, a man was living in my house without my knowledge. This shows, me, perhaps, how I need to be more focussed on the people in my life. I don't know if you`d understand, but too often, the work will always come first."

_You betcha he does_, thinks Molly Hooper from the workbench of Stig`s lab. Sherlock has called in to say goodbye on his way to the airport. It certainly gets no easier for her, but she makes certain he never sees that.

Sherlock`s face betrays nothing.

"I have Dr Hooper to thank for pointing me towards this case. Her observations were quite useful. I can only hope your work is your saviour now, Professor. The mind needs something to tear into, and distractions are no use to you."

Stig sighs.

"I know this, but I had a chance at love, and I took it. Who wouldn`t, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock picks up his bag and shakes the giant hand presented to him, followed by the hand of Molly Hooper.

"Sentiment, Professor. The grit upon the lens. It is, perhaps, best to avoid it in favour of the purity of Beta-Cell function."

Molly smiles, widely, across at them both. "Ah, Beta-Cells. You know where you are with them."

Sherlock blinks. Once. Walking over to the nearest laptop, where Stig had just signed out, he puts down his bag and taps briefly across the keys.

"What is it you need, Mr Holmes? That is password protected – oh… I see you`ve learnt my password from somewhere – who -?"

Sherlock glances at Molly, then Stig.

"You just need to observe." Comments Sherlock, as Stig`s precious research, file after file, appears.

"The password had to be a five letter word with four numbers on the end. A person`s personal space, whether it be office or bedroom, holds so many clues to their predilections and preferences. Your career and your University are clearly represented in your diplomas, awards, pictures. You graduated in 1980, so there was a four digit number. I noticed no less than six Rubik cubes in your office when John Watson and I visited. Perhaps Rubik was the five letter word?" He hoisted his bag back on his shoulder.

"Maybe your wife just didn`t know you quite as well as she should have." And then he is gone.

Stig and Molly work silently in the fluorescence of the lab lighting, for over an hour. It is easy and companionable and Molly is completely involved in her spectrophometer reading when Stig`s voice makes her jump a little.

"How long has it been, Molly?"

She looks at her watch and then at the culture in front of her. "Only around eighteen minutes – "

" – no. I meant, how long have you known Mr Holmes? He is a very intelligent man. A remarkable person."

_God, Molly, this isn't the time to get blushy and tongue-tied. That is SO four years ago. Get yourself together…_

"Around four years – he used to come into Bart`s fairly often – to do experiments; look at corpses – that sort of thing. He helps the police a bit, so we let him come and go, pretty much as he pleases. He`s having his own lab built now, though, so probably he won`t be at Bart`s so much. I am good friends with Dr Watson, his friend. He`s the one who writes all those detective-y bloggy things…they are quite popular – "

She suddenly stops talking to see Stig Amundssen smiling indulgently at her. _I don`t know if I like that smile_, thinks Molly Hooper. _That smile could suggest dangerous conclusions being drawn…_

Stig looks down at his microscope and adjusts a slide, still smiling.

"And how long have you loved him?"

She goes hot and cold.

"About … four years."

Stig is nodding. "I knew it. You light up like a – an _Atolla jellyfish_ – whenever he is near you. You are – ha! – _bioluminescent!_" He booms at his own science joke. Molly thinks he means well by it, since the game is clearly up.

"Is it so obvious?"

"`Grit upon the lens` - ha! I have been fooled enough for one day, Dr Hooper! You and Sherlock Holmes – it is all about the love. He knows it, too."

Molly stands, adjusting to her new dimensions as she does so, and walks across to where Stig is working, and wraps her arms around his large barrel of a body. They barely meet. The side of her face presses into his woolly jumper. It is all itchy and scratchy and smells faintly of pine.

"You mustn't believe him about love, Stig." A muffled whisper. "He`s relatively new to it. Go for it – find it – keep it. It`s what we all need in this life. You`re going to be fine."

And as her certainty and calm washes over him, Stig reflects upon what an excellent team these two do make.

**x0x**

* * *

**Arcoiris: Lol - Yes, Molly may have to think of some ruse to explain her hotel upgrade - bonus from Bart`s? Sherlock just wasn't going to tolerate that tiny bed again.**


	13. Accidents and Incidents

To: dr_mollyH googlemail . com

From: doc_jhamish_watson ntlworld co .uk

Subject: The Case of the Inexperienced Golfer

Hi Molly,

It`s been a while, I`m afraid. Work has been busy, my Masters has begun (_what have I done_?) and I`ve been out and about with Sherlock from time to time, when Sholto lays down his weary head. Things have improved somewhat in that department, let me tell you – solid food has saved us all! Sherlock has, thank god, abandoned his feeding/sleeping baby experiments, but has now taken up with hand/eye co-ordination baby experiments involving my son. He truly sees a baby as a new subject in his curious little experimenting head – a little like a lab rat, but with less fur. Still, it`s marginally better than his six month study of mould cultures…

Last week saw a big drop in temperature here in London. November hit us like a tonne of icy bricks, so god only knows what the weather is like over there in Uppsala. I did like where you live when I visited Molly. I just wish I`d seen a bit more of you. Circumstances kind of got in the way. Mary was a bit mad I hadn't been out for dinner/drinks at least once with you when I was there. Still, I hear you`re back in the new year, so – great! – we`ll catch up then.

Sherlock and I found ourselves at Goodwood Downs Golf Club in Sussex, last Friday. Mr Peter Carey, a member of the club for over fifteen years, was under suspicion of the murder of one of the grounds men, John Neligan. Neligan had been found dead in the tractor shed, near the first tee, with a blunt force trauma to the temple. No other signs of a scuffle, just his packed lunch and a still warm flask of tea, when he was found. Mr Carey had been playing with a small group of three friends; one of whom was new to the club, and hoping to be nominated for membership in the near future. He realised he`d dropped his wallet near the first tee, so went back alone. It was then he discovered the body in the shed and was the one who raised the alarm. His fingerprints were everywhere. It was early, first group of the day, and his footprints were the only ones, besides the victim, in and around the shed. He was clearly in the frame and was desperate for Sherlock to prove his innocence.

Sherlock had almost sent me on my own ("_only a five! I am busy, John_.") I pointed out that monitoring my son`s ability to pass a toy giraffe from one hand to the other did not qualify as _busy_, so he reluctantly came along and managed to have a fine old time; measuring, calculating, examining that shed and first tee area until I couldn't see what there was left to measure. He interviewed Stanley Hopkins, the man who was hoping to join. Apparently, he had heard a distant cry when he was playing, but thought nothing of it. He admitted he had not had the best of games, since his inexperience of the club`s layout and his slightly strained wrist from a fall the day before, meant a lot of shots were way off target. Didn't Sherlock just ask all the right questions – as he does – before you realise they were the right questions to ask.

Then, the _git_ got me to demonstrate _my_ swing (almost none existent, since I hate golf) from the first tee. Well, it went everywhere it shouldn't have done, including nearly right back at me when it bounced off a nearby tree. Shortly after that, Sherlock did that smug smile thingy he does and texted DI Adams, the local man in charge of the case. Seems Mr Carey was no longer a suspect.

Know what happened? Apparently, Mr Hopkins, injured and a _newbie_, had miss-hit his ball many times, but one of them resulted in a ball which travelled back into the tractor shed, close by and, judging by the slight indentations in the corrugated iron interior of the shed, the ball had ricocheted around that enclosed space and hit Mr Neligan on the temple, killing him instantly. The area was full of discarded golf balls, so who would notice the murder weapon in amongst them. Hidden in plain sight.

Maybe not a five, after all. And it did result in Sherlock and I getting lifetime membership of the club, should we want it. I managed to stop him giving his true opinion of hitting `_a silly little ball with a silly little stick, wearing even sillier trousers_` by pretending he had a call from Lestrade. No one offended, case solved. Excellent result.

Well, hope you are ok. You looked great when I did catch a glimpse of you back in September. The air up there must suit you better than all this London pollution. Mary sends her love, Sholto sends some slobbery kisses (and maybe a bite) and, before I forget, Greg Lestrade says `hello`. Just be warned that his wife has dumped him again, and he may be reaching out to you for other reasons!

I am signing off now, since Mary, Sherlock and I are taking Mrs Hudson out, by way of apology (in Sherlock`s case) for the lab being built and causing so much mess. It has taken rather longer than I would have thought, but that`s probably down to Sherlock`s exacting diva demands. I hope she likes curry.

Wrap up even warmer,

John xxx

**x0x**

To: mycroftholmes_personal gmail. co .uk

From: dr_mollyH googlemail . co .uk

Subject: Thank you!

The furniture is beautiful and looks really perfect in the nursery, from the photos Sherlock sent. I would say that _you shouldn`t have_, but we both know that would be a lie. Sherlock will affect disdain, but I am very happy and grateful. The stars are a lovely touch. Please let Anthea know her taste is spot on.

Your mother and I had tea in the Salhhallen Tea Rooms yesterday. I had no idea she had studied in Sweden when she was a maths boffin in the eighties. It was a little strange, but nice. She seems at ease with the slightly unusual circumstances of the whole situation. She did keep saying things like:

"We generally just gave up on anything like this happening ... I still can`t quite believe it."

And, Mycroft, I have to say, _I second that emotion_.

From the Parallel Universe that is My Life,

Molly x

(yes, it was a kiss – deal with it.)

**x0x**

To: dr_mollyH googlemail. co .uk

From: parrot_lady5 Hotmail. co .uk

Subject: Bart`s Gossip

Hi Molly-cule (I am so keeping up that nickname, girl),

I got the dress! Yes! The Christmas party is not gonna know what hit it when I walk in that door! Joanne is spitting feathers, since there is no way her fat ass is gonna fit into anything like this (I`ll let you borrow it, though, if you could take it up a bit). Got the earrings I showed you in my last email too. Stand back, Mike Stamford – you are gonna need more fire extinguishers in the lab in two weeks time when I swing by that buffet table!

I am too sad you aren`t going to make it Molls. Thought your time out in the frozen wastes was nearly up. Maybe new year, though? We have all been missing you and your little ponytail. Sanderson hasn`t quite got the people skills you had in the lab, and he`s like a sloth getting through the paperwork. Me and Jo have had to stay late three nights last week to help the idiot catch up. He`s too busy eyeing that police sergeant up every time she comes in – Donovan, I think they call her. Comes in with Greg Lestrade.

Oooh, Moll, that does remind me of something that happened last week – too funny! And weird. You also know, that when I mention the word `weird`, the words `Sherlock Holmes` are never that far behind. I know you like him, my strange little friend, but those cold eyes do freak me out a bit. I do see how _you_ find that sexy though. Nutter.

Anyway, it was Tuesday, and I was going over the three million unfinished bits of Sanderson`s paperwork in Lab 2, when Greg (_he IS a sweetie_) and Sherlock come storming in, like I wasn`t even there, in the middle of some kind of `heated debate`...actually, it was a full on _spat_, Molly! Sherlock`s cold eyes looked kinda hot and he was really _ma-a-ad_. Greg was also giving it right back.

"Sherlock, I don`t really see what problem it would be to you!" spits Greg, slamming down his police man notebook on the counter. I jump with shock, but neither of them even notice me. "All I wanted was her email address!"

"Just _don`t_ Lestrade – " Sherlock is kinda hissing at him – like a snake. It seemed more scary than shouting, actually.

"Don`t use Molly as your damn _fall-back position_, every time things hit the wall with your WIFE!"

Yes, my little Molly-cule – they were arguing about YOU! Ooh – exciting or what?!

"Well, that`s rich, coming from YOU!" (They were virtually circling each other by now Moll...)

"You use that girl whenever you want something!" Shouts Greg. "You manipulate her crush on you to do whatever you want. You don`t get to lecture me ..." Blah, blah, blah... You get the gist of it, yes?

Anyway, then, Sherlock gets really close – _nose to nose_ – with Greg and almost whispers to him, with narrow eyes that look like they want him dead:

"Just stay away from Molly Hooper, or I will not be very happy, and that_ Never. Ends. Well_."

I tell you, I have never seen anything like it since accidentally I watched a programme on the Discovery Channel about male stags fighting over a little lady deer. It was really sexy, Molly. I had to slink out, paper work in hand, before those stags saw me. Sherlock Holmes, showing emotion, over YOU, Moll – maybe he`s finally seen the light.

It`s funny, since they weren`t speaking after that, till John Watson had to have a word. Kinda got in the way of some murder case they were looking at. Bloody mental, huh?

Must sign off now; got to take Percy to the vet`s again – his feathers just aren`t growing back.

Miss you, miss you, miss you – PLEASE come back, as soon as you can!

Love and sexy dresses,

Sarah xxxxxx

**X0x0x0x0x0x0x0x0x**

* * *

**Arcoiris: That is, indeed, an amazing thing to say - I do so love those stories. They didn't have to be big crimes!**


	14. Mummys Mistake

To: Sherlock_holmes221 Hotmail . co .uk (via encryption)

From: mycroftholmes_personal gmail. co .uk

Subject: One for sorrow

Sherlock,

Intelligence has rather unfortunate information regarding movements of our Magpie in the region of the _Norra Projekt. _Security and safety have become an issue and knowledge of D-Day must be limited to a chosen few. I do appreciate you have been cautious (and have a default setting to ignore my advice) but a full block on the UK connection must be enforced. A suite has been reserved in _Södersjukhuset Maternity Clinic_ for the week in question. Be advised, brother mine, that although the threat is tenuous, it is not a risk I am willing to take in the circumstances.

Mummy would never forgive me.

Regards,

Mycroft

**x0x**

To: dr_mollyH googlemail . com

From: not_your_housekeeper gmail . co .uk

Subject: Arrangements

Hello Dear,

It`s Mrs Hudson and I`m EMAILing again. I have managed to send three this week, and only lost one (it was to my sister, and she`s not a fan of computers, to be honest) and so I think that will cheer Sherlock up.

I am sorry to be indelicate, dear, as we perhaps don`t know each other that well, but I hope you will accept my advice as that of a mother`s and know that I have only your best interests at heart.

Sherlock has told me all about your _unfortunate situation_ and all I can say is that I despair with what passes for modern men. In my day, if a man got his lady `in trouble`, he would be responsible for her and do the right thing by her. None of this running off and leaving her high and dry, without even a place to raise his child. I can tell you that my father (not always the most stable of men) would have horse-whipped him, and that`s a fact.

I do recall meeting your `Tom` around the time of John and Mary`s engagement, and he seemed such an honest-faced young man – thought the world of you, it seemed. Just goes to show how little we can really trust people. Truth be told, I`ve slept with a small pistol under my pillow for many a year. Firstly, when I was married to the late Mr Hudson (as he did mix with some rather unusual folks) and then, again, in the past few years when Sherlock became my tenant (same reason, really).

All I can advise, then, Molly, is that you just put that scoundrel Tom behind you and move on with your life, even if it means raising his baby on your own. I have discovered, over the years, that having a man in your life isn`t always the best way to go – it`s the one`s that stand by you that really matter.

It really is lovely that Sherlock is one of those _one`s_. Just try not to leave him alone with the baby, dear.

The upstairs flat, you will be glad to know, is now fully finished and furnished – it really is very nice. Sherlock had quite a decent reward from those poor blackmail victims of Mr Magnussen. I can assure you, it has been put to very good use. Between 221A and the basement Laboratory, my little corner of London is almost unrecognisable. If only I could persuade Sherlock to pick up a few papers from the floor, or keep his mould to just cheese, like normal people, I`d be a lot happier, but I suppose you can`t have everything. He`s promised there`ll be no more stray thumbs or eyelids though, so there might be hope.

Well, look at me, I am going on and on – this EMAIL is rather addictive, don`t you find? I just wanted to know that you will be more than welcome at Baker Street, and I do look forward to having a young lady (and her baby – I am sure they don`t all cry as much as Sholto) on the premises. I am sure you will be a calming influence on the place, since you may not yet realise, Sherlock can be a little trying to live with at times. Don`t worry though – he seems all `_Sherlock_` on the outside (I do remember _that Christmas_, dear) but I happen to know he has a heart under all that.

Sherlock is a bit secretive about things, so I am not quite sure when I`ll be seeing you, but I am looking forward to it.

What kind of biscuits do you like?

Yours,

Martha Hudson (I have learnt how to do a `smiley` - rather good!)

**x0x**

"Mycroft, Mycroft, you are ruining my line of sight!"

The scuffed, bony knees skittered across the polished teak table top until Sherlock was directly in front of his brother`s dinner plate. Grey, worsted shorts were ripped and dirty, pockets bulging with _unmentionable_ things – directly opposite _Mycroft`s line of sight_.

An immaculate and irretrievably affected teenager, Mycroft usually found close proximity to his sibling, shorts or whatever, just a little bit – _messy_. Messy and inconvenient. He slowly glanced up to his table-top little brother, a barely concealed intolerance glittering in his eyes.

"Mummy has told you several thousand times, Sherlock, that the furniture is not your playground and that – " a glance at _something _that could have been _seeping_ out of his _little albatross`s_ left pocket " – the open sewer is not your toy box. Get yourself away from my dinner!"

Sherlock`s pale little face sneered and pouted disdainfully at his brother. _He may, or may not have been practising this in the mirror_.

"Apple pie and chocolate cake isn't dinner, Mycroft. It is your _pattiserie_! You can`t have _pattiserie _for dinner. Ergo, I am not near your dinner."

Sherlock blows an errant curl from his eye line, and turns from his slightly seething sibling to the job in hand. The window. Or, more specifically, what lay beyond the window. _His line of sight_.

For Sherlock Holmes, aged nine and a half, was on a stakeout.

He crouched, still atop the teak, and raised a stolen pair of binoculars to his eyes. They dwarfed his face, but he managed to adjust them with alarming accuracy.

Mycroft`s teenage patience was being sorely tested. It was no wonder he was turning to … pattiserie. Standing sulkily at the Aga, fork in one hand and plate in the other, he contemplates, objectively, for once, the boy who he privately dubs, `_Mummy`s Mistake_.`

Tall for his age, skinny to the point of gangly, unbelievably lacking fear in the acquisition of new knowledge, questioning of everything, misunderstood and actively disliked by his peers, adored by their parents (yet worried about), attention span of a may fly (hopefully not the life span, though).

"I will, of course, be telling them when they get back, about your errant behaviour, Sherlock."

"I can`t listen with my ears, because I am _visualising_ with my eyeballs, Mycroft. Ssshhh!"

Mycroft sighs.

Assigned a tutor aged 7 (aged 8, and 9 too…they didn't last long) Sherlock hadn't learnt to tolerate what Mycroft called `The Goldfish` as readily as he had done. Mycroft knew they had their uses and was mildly interested in their motives, so smiled and engaged. Sherlock was not quite there yet. A nine year old boy who would not trade down his intelligence (and, let`s face it_, snooty superciliousness_) for the sake of popularity. Would his little brother ever have friends who could join him on his `missions`, `stakeouts` and `detectings`, as he called them? He doubted it.

"I know I will regret asking this, Sherlock, but, what are you – observing – from the top of our dining table? More cattle rustling? A pirate ship in the duck pond?"

A frowning face, brows drawn down over blue almond eyes, whips round to face him.

"I am not a _little baby_, Mycroft. If you _have_ to know, I am observing Mrs Rylance, the midwife…she is calling at the Parker`s house across the lane. Again."

Mycroft is temporarily quietened. The midwife. Well, well, where was this going?

Sherlock continues, resuming his _binocularing._

"I have observed Mrs Rylance on four different occasions, when she visits people in the street. I have been making – _notes_…"

Mycroft folds his arms, tilting his head. "Do tell me more, Sherlock. What do your `notes` lead you to believe?"

"At first, I wasn't sure, since I didn't have enough data. You can`t make the facts suit the data. I`ve been watching, Mycroft, but you mustn't tell Mummy what I`ve found out. Promise."

The bright eyes catch his again, and Mycroft feels a strange tightening in his throat and a prickle in his eyes.

"I promise."

Sherlock puts down the binoculars, scoots to the edge of the table and lands on the floor of the kitchen, next to his brother. He beckons and Mycroft bends down to let him whisper.

"I know where babies come from," whispers Sherlock Holmes, his voice a tangle of barely surpressed excitement.

"Indeed?"

Nodding.

"Mrs Rylance delivers them – in her satchel. The facts are as clear as the nose on your face."

He smiles proudly, folding his skinny little arms across his chest.

And Mycroft knows he will never think of him as `_Mummy`s Mistake_` ever again.

**X0x0x0x0x0x0x0x0x**

To: doc_jhamish_watson ntlworld co .uk

From:Sherlock_holmes221 Hotmail. co .uk

Subject: Unexpected

John,

I will be slightly delayed returning to Baker Street since this current case has me – a little inconvenienced. It should, hopefully, be wrapped up in time for the weekend. Please send my regrets to Lestrade regarding the Somerset poisonings. If you mention it was the home-brewed cider, I should be eternally grateful. I would do it myself, but I don`t wish to.

Laterz…

SH

To: Sherlock_holmes221 Hotmail. co .uk

From: doc_jhamish_watson ntlworld co .uk

Subject: re: Unexpected

Sherlock,

I hope things are ok. I will do as you ask, but you really need to stop sulking with Greg – he`s a good man – so much so, he refuses to tell me what you two have fallen out about. It will come out in the end though - as ever.

One more thing (_since you are so busy fighting crime in Bermuda – do they even have a crime rate_?) – can you explain why Mycroft has had a pair of binoculars delivered to me to pass on to you? Is it one of your brother/brother dysfunctional private jokes? I`m not even going to guess, my friend – I`ve been told it`s an appalling habit.

Hurry back, it`s nearly Christmas and I don't want you leaving your shopping till the last minute again. (_Yes, sarcasm_.)

John

**x0x**

* * *

**espee: you are very kind - there is nothing better than the combination of puzzles and Sherlolly, I feel!**

**Arcoiris: Lol - I don`t blame you for forgetting - I do too! Frequently!**

**I should already have mentioned to everyone that the picture for the avatar was beautifully drawn by Hiyas, and is called `Dawn` (thanks to Lora for the prompt) - apologies :)**


	15. Snowstorm

It could be a hospital corridor anywhere in the world. Same smell, same buffed and shiny floor, same echo beneath bustling feet, same air of slightly nervous anticipation. Everyone is going somewhere purposeful and useful. Everyone knows his or her role – doctor, nurse, porter, patient, visitor…

And Sherlock Holmes has a role too – one he isn't used to having (_best start getting on board with that, bro –_ )…

He is the one who waits.

Sherlock sits on the hardest of plastic chairs in a deserted waiting room. It is almost one a.m. and the blizzard has blotted all the dark out of the night sky. It is now a grey and swirling snowy whirlpool – a _Charybdis_ of a glittering ice storm which had been blowing around the hospital for the last hour since their arrival.

Anyone with any sense had gone home, since the savvy Swedes knew a road blocker when they saw one. Definitely a _Vägspärr_ storm tonight. The ambulance had only just got into the bay before the first, fat, heavy flakes had begun to swirl. Already, the world outside was becoming muffled and a styrofoam shell was developing around the outer walls of the _Södersjukhuset Clinic. _All this seemed to do was give Sherlock the feeling he was slowly being buried alive. Suffocating under layer upon layer.

A cold sweat broke out on his forehead.

Fuck.

This was a situation that was escalating into something he wasn`t sure he was capable of handling. It was so far out of his realm of experience and understanding, that he felt a rising panic which, in past times, had sent him scrabbling for the needle. Madly racing heart, dry mouth, hyper-ventilation setting in...

Sherlock stood. Good, movement was good. Walking blindly to the nearest window, he could only look out onto swirling greyness – _if there was ever a pictoral representation of your inner turmoil – well, there it is, my friend._

Staring down at his hands, he dimly acknowledged he is gripping the edge of the window sill, showing white knuckles.

_This is a white knuckle ride, my friend_.

You are no friend, inner voice of torture. Your smug, knowing `told you so` commentary is testing what small threads of sanity remain to me.

In the silence of the deserted Swedish hospital, Sherlock can hear the blood drumming inside his head and he raises a shaking (_shaking_!) hand to push the hair out of his face. He was cold to the bone, but starbursts behind his eyes break him out in a cold sweat every thirty seconds or so. This is just adrenalin overload. A panic attack. _Mind Palace – what do I do?_

Control your breathing – Sherlock found he was holding his breath – the star bursts behind his eyes and tingling in his hands and feet told him he was going to pass out if he didn`t ...

Sit down, preferably low to the ground. Put your head between your knees to improve blood flow... he slid down the cold, painted wall and sat, heavily onto the shiny floor.

If only there was enough air in this giant, styrofoam coffin – where was the fucking AIR!?

Avoid caffeine, alcohol or nicotine ...that surely is a joke, no? Head in his shaking hands, Sherlock decided, wildly, he would french kiss Moriarty for a cigarette right now. For TEN cigarettes, there was no telling what he would do...

His breathing was wretched, struggling. Surely, he was dying?

_It`s all in your head, Sherlock_.

God, Mycroft, not NOW! I`m dying!

_Always the drama queen, Sherlock. You are not dying, merely having, what tremelous people term, a panic attack. _

I KNOW what it is, and it is going to kill me!

_Not today, Sherlock. Today isn`t a time for death. It`s a time for life._

No, no...breathe – breathe dammit!

I`m not ready.

Everything was muffled now, as Sherlock stared, wildy at the small section of floor he was sitting upon. Scratched, overly buffed, grey linoleum, with tiny sparkles set within the fabric of it. He had to focus on something. Focus. Everything else was blurred and feathered around the edges, like a watercolour, bleeding into the cartridge paper. Keep looking at the grey sparkles. Breathe. He screws up his eyes, but nothing blots out his _fear._..

I`m not ready, Mycroft. I can`t do it.

_You can._

I can`t be responsible for _myself_! I don`t remember to buy MILK! I kill cactii. I will drop it. I don`t have time for this...

_Yes, Sherlock, you can. And you do._

I do not have the _heart_ for this ... (`dead behind your eyes`?)

_Yes_.

NO!

In a second, Sherlock is on his feet, galvanised and striding towards the emergency exit. His hand touches the bar and he is pushing down – hard – and he is walking out into the icy vortex of the Swedish night. A million cubic litres of freezing icy air break over him and he breathes the deepest and most delicious breath of his entire life...the wind catches his coat, buffeting and tearing away his scarf, his hair a frozen halo of frost within seconds. _I am in the storm; part of the storm_, he thinks – _everything is rushing passed and around and over and through me_...Sherlock opens his arms and closes his eyes, turning around, slowly in the snow. As the huge clumps of flakes hit his face and partially melt, he realises he is smiling and opens his eyes, seeing them fall down on him, like cherry blossom in May.

And Sherlock Holmes is still smiling as he breathes again, then again and again – as free as a bird.

And alive.

He is more than transport, than ephemera...he is part of something so much bigger...

And then, he is striding back inside the hospital doors, to the people. His people. The people who need him most in all the world.

**x0x**

Molly Hooper looks up from the bed to see – _well, she supposes, nothing could ever really surprise her after today._

"Is it nice out?"

"It`s ... _fresh_."

Sherlock brushes several drifts of snow from his shoulders and hair; mercifully a fair distance from the occupants of the room.

Ingers, the midwife, stares up from the desk, where she is writing up Molly`s notes.

"Detta är fadern?"

"Ja."

"Lycka till min älskling." Ingers gives her a look imbued with empathy.

Sherlock has disrobed and is looking more or less normal, bar the dripping of his hair. Ingers, now smiling indulgently at him (_how does he bloody do it?_) throws him a towel.

"Tack. Don `t låta din dotter köpa den bilen, är dealern mindre än ärlig." Drawls Sherlock, rubbing at his hair.

Ingers` eyes widen, and she stops writing. She suddenly decides to finish her notes at the nurses station, and gently closes the door behind her, giving a final, slightly sympathetic glance at the little plastic sided cot on the other side of the bed.

They are alone.

All three of them.

"Where have you been, Sherlock? I mean, besides building a snowman."

"I needed some – air."

Molly smiles at him, only slightly wincing as he sits on the bed. Sherlock scrunches up his face in what Molly could only describe as ...

Empathy?

Wow.

"Panic attack, I`m guessing."

He gives his head a shake. How had she got in there?

"Like you wouldn`t believe."

"But, hey, you came back!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and smiled at her.

"You may have something I want to see."

"Am I to be wheeling out a body or two?"

"Not even a bowl of eyeballs."

"A deviated tongue, perhaps? They are both smiling now. Thank god Ingers had disappeared. _They were sick, sick people._

"A dislocated kneecap with multiple fractures? I have two of those."

"Not even that." Sherlock reaches out a cold, damp hand and brushes away the sweaty mess of Molly Hooper`s hair. It felt like heaven on her hot little face and she closes her eyes.

"Let me see my son," he whispers, "since you`ve gone to all that trouble."

And so she did.

**x0x**

* * *

**Translations: Between Molly and Ingers - (roughly) `Is this the father?` - `Yes` - `Good luck, my darling.`**

**Sherlock to Ingers: `Thank you. Don`t let your daughter buy the car - the dealer is less than honest.`**

**Arcoiris: Yes, they were all in `The Case of the Devil`s Flower` - after babies born.**


	16. Epilogue: Family

Mycroft Holmes is sitting at his highly polished monolith of a desk, enjoying its vast expanse before him. _Separates me from the others_, he is thinking. Mycroft does so like to be separate.

Most of the time.

Tall sash windows are darkened and only the desk light illuminates his small, but beautifully furnished office. Something larger was offered, but he thought it may have drawn unwanted attention – he was only supposed to be a minor official in the Foreign Office; barely a clerk really. He really didn`t need an Oval Office.

Turning to his laptop, he puts the final touches to an email to his baby brother.

His baby brother who now had a baby of his own.

Mycroft was rarely surprised, but the day he found out about Sherlock`s lastest rebellion, it had shocked him to the very core of his being. Black was white; right was left and the whole universe had seemed out of kilter. But, Mycroft had done what he`d always done – damage limitation; making things right and sorting things out. _Sorting out Sherlock_ could almost be his personal lifelong committment, since a baby of his own was probably pushing it. But, then, in this new, unstable universe that Sherlock has foisted upon him, who could really say? Maybe he`d go in for a `rainbow family`, in the style of Angeline Jolie? Why not?

Rapid typing, then a sip of Lady Grey, to calm his nerves (Earl Grey was just that bit too _bergamot-y_) and Mycroft pressed _send._

He had sent encrypted emails to their parents, but had advised Sherlock to remain under the radar for a little while longer. Sherlock had no difficulty in doing this, since his own predilicition was to be secretive and, Mycroft suspected, he was attempting to come to terms with the whole situation privately. Humanity and its detritus was not really Sherlock`s _bag_. Mycroft had always expected his brother to travel through life without being affected by the baser emotion which seems to draw and tie one person to another, even after the tie should have been severed. A lifetime with someone you might end up barely tolerating seemed utterly appalling and the very essence of masochistic spiteing of oneself.

His brother`s sexuality, he had imagined, was pretty non-existent too. The Iceman, and the Virgin. Maybe a new name would need to be considered.

Mycroft lets his thoughts wander as he slowly turns a small business card around in his long fingers. Thick and expensive, the card is creamy-coloured, with nothing but a simple bird design on one side, and a one word message on the other. Arriving in the morning post, the same morning that saw the birth of his nephew, it had born no clue as to its origin, only its sender.

He looks at the perfectly detailed black and white pen and ink drawing of a Magpie, the scavenger bird, in the centre of the card. A beautiful rendition, and one he had certainly seen before. And on the reverse, an innocent and apparently joyous salutation:

_Congratulations_

_BM._

As the door is sharply rapped, Mycroft discreetly places the card in his top drawer and deftly sets another cup upon his tea tray. Enough in the silvered pot for two, as he has planned. A regretful lack of tea plate for additional extras, but needs must.

"Come in, please."

The large panelled door opens silently across the opulent Turkish rug which had often softened the footfalls of his exclusive selection of visitors, and in walks a small, delicately boned dark haired girl, shaking tiny drops of English rain out of her bouncing curls, which are escaping from their yellow ribbon.

"Late, as ever." Mycroft`s tone is more an observation than an annoyance. "Would you like a cup of tea, Seiga?"

And Seiga Härbärgera, Swedish microbiologist and British agent nods brusquely, before sliding into the leather-bound chair opposite him.

"Shall we speak in English, or do you prefer Swedish?"

"English. It helps my fluency. Whichever country I am in, I go for the _mother_ tongue, Mycroft." Siega accepts the tea and sips it. She then leans across and adds no fewer than three lumps of sugar, stirring rapidly. Her feet are tapping and circling continuously.

"You took the tube again? Doesn`t that just make your impatience and intolerance... _even more so_?"

Seiga shrugs, dismissively and puts down the cup, which she has drained.

"Occasionally. But I like to watch the people. So many deductions, Mycroft." She smiles at him, wickedly. It is a rare expression for her, and he is always slightly charmed (or alarmed) to witness it.

He raises his eyebrows to hide any – sentiment.

"Quite so. Well, to business. Now that the_ Norra Projekt_ has reached its conclusion, your participation in the situation has come to an end. Sherlock and his ... " He truly did not know how to finish the sentence.

" – family?" suggests Seiga, a tiny glint in her eye. Mycroft frowns and then acquieses, nodding.

"Indeed. His `family`, return tomorrow. You know of most recent developments?"

She nods.

"Do you intend to tell him, about me?"

"At this point, absolutely not. He would, perhaps naturally, be outraged that I had thought the safety of Dr Hooper to be so at risk – and chosen to send in an agent, besides himself. I need him to return to Switzerland quite soon to investigate a few more murmurings. He needs to be clear of head. I am not quite sure where his head has been for the last nine months or so. Sherlock`s behaviour has been more than perplexing on so many occasions, but I have understood it. This time, he seems a little unreachable..."

Seiga has heard enough. She is rudely waving her hand to silence him. He lets her.

"Pfft! Hush now, Mycroft. It really isn`t all that complicated. Sherlock has just fallen in love with a goldfish – that is all. It is no great mystery. She is quite a special girl. Not what you might first expect. She grounds him and calms him. She calmed me too. My fidgeting was almost non-existent in the presence of Dr Molly Hooper."

"Surely, all this is just another way to annoy – "

The hand goes up again.

"Mycroft," says Seiga, in her soft, Swedish lilt, "sometimes, it isn`t always about YOU."

He shuts up, tilting his head towards her, contemplating.

"Quite. So, you think Sherlock is capable of love? Of sustaining it? He will be greatly tested over the next few months."

She sits back and places her small, delicate feet, encased in wet, dirty boots, atop his beautiful desk. He does not flicker.

"Yeah, Myke. She`s good, so good for him. He has grown up since the pirates, the drugs, the fighting...He fucking loves her. Leave him alone."

Mycroft has risen and decided it is time for a rare event in his Diogenes Club Office.

The opening of the cocktail cabinet.

He pours them two fingers each of his finest single malt and raises his glass to hers.

"Då honnör, till Sherlock och hans nya familj - grattis till alla."

And they clink and drink.

Siega savours for a moment. It is very good whisky. Then she says:

"Ah, family – the ties that bind. Is he ever going to know?"

Mycroft swirls the amber liquid slowly around in his crystal tumbler.

"When he is ready, little sister. Maybe sooner than we think."

And they drink to their brother in the safe, calm darkness of the British Government.

**THE END**

* * *

**So there we have it. All done.**

**Just a HUGE thank you to everyone who has read, liked, favourited, followed or commented on this story - you have made me very happy :)**

**More adventures to come soon!**

**EL x**


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